The Three Edged Blade Best Seen From Afar
by Shadow Master
Summary: (BtVS/Hitman Universe/The Bourne Franchise/Mission Impossible Franchise/Tomb Raider Franchise/Others) Strange how you can live your entire life with someone and not know who they truly are on the inside. Too bad the truth has a way of getting out regardless of the lack of permission from anyone.
1. Chapter 1

"The Three Edged Blade Best Seen From Afar" by Shadow Master

(BtVS/Hitman Universe/The Bourne Franchise/Mission Impossible/Tomb Raider/Others)

email: ryley[underscore]breen

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the copyrighted material contained herein. They are the rightful property of their respective creators and/or associated companies. I make no profit from this whatsoever and I have no intention of changing this at any point in the future. I write because it's fun and because there are those who enjoy reading my works. Therefore it would be greatly appreciated if no legal action were taken against me because I can assure you that whatever you get from me won't cover even a tenth of your legal fees.

Note: The core elements of this crossover will be the franchises listed above but I may include others provided I believe that they can properly mesh with the above franchises. While I will try to remain as close to canon as possible I think all of you can agree that each franchise has its share of continuity errors and contradictions. As such while I will remain true to the core facts I will be cherry picking various facts from all the canon works in order to tell the story I wish to tell. If you have a problem with any deviation whatsoever from canon I suggest you stop reading right now. It's not that I am not aware of the various smart options and efficient ways of doing things but rather I have a story I wish to tell and doing things the smart or efficient ways would ruin things in my opinion.

Note 2: In terms of timeline while there will be flashbacks and such this will primarily start during season three of BtVS. For the Bourne Franchise this will occur most likely after the Bourne Ultimatum since it'd provide me with the most leeway. For the Mission Impossible movies it'd likely happen after Mission Impossible Three since I'll need the IMF not to be a mess in order for my story to work. As for the Tomb Raider Franchise it'll likely happen a couple of years after the Cradle of Life movie with the adventures from the videogames filling in the time in between the movie and the events in this story.

Note 3: There will be some deviation and manipulation involved since the movies, games and the rest were released at different times. YES there will be conflicts since the various movies featured technology that only came out years after BtVS came to an end as well as other timeline inconsistencies. I would ask that you ignore these conflicts and inconsistencies so that you may enjoy the story I wish to tell. Just consider this an AU where the technologies and events referred to in the movies and games came to pass prior to when this will begin in the BtVS universe.

 _ **The Three Edged Blade Best Seen From Afar**_

 _ **An Undisclosed Location**_

 _ **May 1980**_

"Has there been any progress on locating Doctor Litvenko?" asked the woman sitting in front of a large blue letter E.

"None. Our forces continue to sift through every scrap of information and follow up on any leads that appear to be the least bit credible but thus far nothing of consequence has been gained," a man replied, sitting before a large blue letter N.

"It is infuriating that one man, not even a soldier, managed to not only kill two of the Fathers but also evade capture for more than twenty years," a man sitting before a large blue letter S growled. "As soon as we find him and extract the necessary scientific data from him, I insist that we put him through the most agonizing ordeal we can conceive of!"

"While I agree that he must be punished for his actions against us and the Program, I am afraid that I would have to oppose harming him until we have gotten all that we can out of him," a woman with a slight Russian accent stated from her position sitting behind a large blue letter W. "Regardless of his disloyalty there is no discounting his genius or denying what he could still bring us. Under increased supervision, of course, and perhaps implanted 'loyalty'."

While S-man looked as though he might press his point of view, the others, besides W-Woman, were leaning more in her direction.

So S-Man brought up another point of discussion.

"While it may be true that Litvenko may not have completely outlived his usefulness, that does not change the fact that, without the ability to produce Agents, we are limited in what we can do," S-Man said before pressing a button near his right hand.

In a flash an image projected from a lens in the ceiling appeared on the table, showing pictures and documents. All highlighted operations that were either completed, in progress or ones that would begin at some later date in the future. However what was included in each of the documents showed was the probability of operation success produced by analysts who were VERY good at gathering data, then putting together how it all would most likely come together.

None of the missions were one hundred percent guaranteed to succeed and most of them predicted a significant loss of resources to get the results predicted. Not enough to get them to abandon their goals, whether they were short term in nature or long term, but enough to make them fume with dissatisfaction.

The missions they designated for Agents had a higher probability of success assigned to them however at the moment there were only forty-two of them still alive and combat ready. The others were either dead or were… defective in ways that made their obedience unlikely.

"With only forty-two Agents at our command we are forced to prioritize certain missions over others, even though ALL of them are important to our long term goals," S-Man said as the slide show came to an end. "Relying on mundanes to make up the difference only increases the risk of our existence reaching the various government agencies."

"We are all quite aware of the current state of affairs," E-Lady said, sounding like she'd heard all this before. "However none of the projects we currently have in motion are nearly as promising as the Agent Program. While methods of control are improving along with the equipment our operatives are provided with, the biological variable remains out of our reach."

"Perhaps not," W-Woman said before utilizing the controls close to her left hand. "I was recently approached by one of the scientists I am responsible for. Doctor Maxwell Feynman submitted a project proposal codenamed Golem, wherein the genetic material of two ideal subjects would be combined to create a specimen. That specimen would then be subjected to a series of genetic treatments meant to graft desirable traits from the blood of the greatest assassins, soldiers, thieves and enforcers of our time. Combined with optimum mental and physical conditioning, to say nothing of the training needed to make use of the genetic gifts, Doctor Feynman believes the prototype might well prove SUPERIOR to an Agent."

"A likely story!" S-Man scoffed, clearly unimpressed with the information. "Clearly this brownnoser is attempting to gain your favor through false promises."

"I am no fool. I reviewed his proposal personally and then had it evaluated by one of the surviving Fathers. He verified the accuracy of the information and judged it to be worth exploring," W-Woman said coldly as she glared at S-Man. "The only flaw is that Feynman predicted that the soonest the prototype would be ready for operational use would be fifteen years. Eighteen would ensure no 'unforeseen anomalies'."

S-man clearly didn't like the delay but he also knew just as the rest of them did that, even if they located Litvenko, it would take at least that long to produce a contingent of new Agents. However with the present odds of finding the Russian and the lack of progress being produced by the remaining Fathers, something needed to be attempted. If the prototype of Project Golem proved effective enough they would have a viable alternative to Agents and could reallocate the resources from the search for Litvenko to other vital operations.

It would require some reworking of their timetable to accommodate the production phase of their new assets but they'd been prepared to do this from the moment Litvenko dropped out of sight. All pursuing this project would require would be a little further tweaking of the details to accommodate the additional variables, as well as the expiry dates of certain assets.

"Very well," E-Lady said, deciding to move things to their logical conclusion. "Let us put it to a vote. All in favor of approving Doctor Feynman's project?"

Hands were raised.

"All opposed?" E-Lady asked before waiting for the votes to be cast.

Thus a new page of history was written but, as with many things, only a few would be privy to the words written on it.

 _ **June 18**_ _ **th**_ _ **, 1999**_

 _ **Harris House**_

 _ **Xander's POV**_

"Get down here RIGHT NOW, you worthless waste of SPACE!" came the bellow of one Tony Harris and it made him cringe with dread.

 _Couldn't he have taken a SINGLE day off from this shit?_ he thought with a sigh as he walked out of his room, bag with graduation gown inside in hand, to see what he'd done now.

Not that he necessarily needed to do anything to get Tony in an uproar since apparently every time his boss got on his case or the fridge was mysteriously lacking in beer after an all night binge, it was his fault. A normal person would hope that perhaps if one parent was being abusive the other would step in intervene or at least call the cops to get the former put away for life.

Not in his house.

In his house Jessica only occasionally remembered that she was his mother and the rest of the time focused almost entirely on her job. Not that he was entirely against that since, with the sheer number of times Tony got put on suspension for trouble at work, they needed at least one stable source of income. Too bad that stable source of income required that she hop a flight to god knew where to please her bosses, making him wonder more than once that if Jessica was so in demand why hadn't she gotten promoted or something. Normally when people call you up at random times of day asking you to drop everything and go someplace to handle a problem, it means you're pretty good. That usually led to a promotion or a pay raise but he hadn't heard of, much less seen, either happen.

 _Maybe they're taking advantage of her, knowing she won't say no,_ he thought as he trotted down the stairs.

Looking at the clock hanging on the wall, he could see that he had a little over twenty minutes to get to the school in time for graduation but with his car he'd get there with time to spare.

Walking into the living room where Tony often was, he was a little surprised to see both Tony and Jessica standing there, looking at him as though they planned on double teaming him. This didn't happen very often, like maybe six times in all the time they'd been in Sunnydale, but it never meant good news for him. Personally he hoped that if he was going to get a beat down that they'd do him the favor of hitting anyplace but the face. The last thing he needed was to give the Scooby gang a clue about his home life right on the doorstep of what'd be their hardest bit of slayage to date. There'd be questions and speculation but, with Mayor McSnake to deal with, they'd have to shelve it for later, leading to everyone being distracted for their own reasons.

"Yes sir," he said in monotone remembering that ANY sign of disrespect would get a punch to the gut from Tony.

"Don't give me that, you poor excuse for a zbraň!" Tony yelled at him, making him cringe.

Indeed he cringed all over at the tone and even closed his eyes, trying in vain to go with the 'out of sight out of mind' approach, but like always it didn't work.

"I know you're goin' on that road trip, shitty waste of time for someone like you, but don't you forget that when you get back you're goin' to the basement," Tony said, sounding like a tyrannical king throwing bread crumbs at a peasant, expecting gratitude to follow. "AND you'll be paying rent: six hundred dollars a month! You don't pay up and you can find somewhere else to live!"

That'd mean he'd need to work at least six hours a day, five days a week, just to pay his 'rent' and if he was now a tenant then he doubted either Jessica or Tony would include food with the deal. Food, clothes, medical bills and anything else like that which existed outside of the minimum obligations of a landlord would be on him to pay on his own. Tack all that on and he was probably looking at somewhere in the region of twenty-five to thirty thousand dollars a year, meaning he'd need a job that paid twice the current minimum wage. Sure, he could probably look for something a little less if he was willing to rob some vamps or have Willy the snitch fence whatever he could 'liberate' from a local tomb, but that was risky. Even with his soldier memories and three years of experience, it was still iffy for him to take on more than three vamps at a time and, given the variety pack they tended to get with demons, it was safe to say that Vegas had better odds.

 _Guess I'm going to have to cut my road trip short if I want a big enough lead on these two to find a job so I can pay the rent,_ he thought, straining a bit to keep his displeasure from showing on his face.

"Now get your sorry ass to the school!" Tony bellowed, his perpetual angry look directed at him.

 _Don't have to tell me twice,_ he thought as he nodded respectfully before turning towards the door.

He FEVERANTLY hoped that by the time he got back from his road trip that he managed to scrounge up something resembling another option than staying in the basement of the house he grew up in, paying his parents rent. It was bad enough he was forced to pull out all the stops to keep the rest of the Scoobies from finding out how bad his home life really was, but if they found out that he'd been demoted to the basement and had to pay his parents rent… he'd never be able to face them. Even Willow's parents, who were almost never around and thought that giving their daughter free reign so long as she didn't overcharge their credit card, were better than his DNA contributors. Buffy, for all her moaning about not having a normal life, was a lot closer to it than most people with her loving mother and warm home. So what if she had to spend a big chunk of her free time hunting big bads and saving lives? Most people would LOVE for their lives to have that kind of meaning!

That was why he would never stop fighting because it gave his life meaning that would've otherwise been lacking in his life.

Without having met Buffy and founding the Scoobies, he would've been doomed to a pathetic life and probably would've fallen into the bottle the same way Tony and Jessica had.

He would never give up the good fight.

He'd die first.

"Is he out of sight?" he asked from where he stood.

"Yes. He just turned the corner," she replied, letting go of the curtain.

"Then let's get going. We need to get into position before the party starts," he said as he turned towards the door he needed to go through. "We can't miss a thing. It all has to be recorded."

"I know. I was there when the orders were given, too," she said as she followed him.

"Then you know that we can't afford to make mistakes at this most crucial juncture," he said as he opened the door and went through it. "This is what we've been working towards all these years. This is when it either all comes together or gets tossed in the scrap heap."

"Then let's stop wasting time talking about our orders and carry them out," she said as they began going down a flight of stairs.

 _ **Sunnydale High School Courtyard**_

 _ **Giles' POV**_

 _I pray this works,_ he thought as he watched Wesley go to join the collection of civilians whose job it would be to form a second front to strike at the Mayor's forces.

The plan was both straightforward yet risky but that was to be expected considering Buffy's personality. The moment the Mayor Ascended the students that'd been armed would cast aside their graduation gowns and form their respective groups with their specific jobs. Xander would then lead the assault using his inherited memories. Two students would utilize improvised flame throwers to keep the Mayor back while others would aim their projectile weaponry at any spot that looked vulnerable. When the Mayor's forces appeared, there was no doubt that they would, they would use the surprise of encountering armed resistance to shake their resolve, causing them to retreat to someplace safe.

And run right into Angel's group made up of some of the students most likely to be able to handle a close quarters fight, as well as Wesley.

This was not, of course, meant to be the way that they would defeat the Mayor but rather a tactic meant to decimate the Mayor's forces enough to safely evacuate the noncombatants while also inflaming the Ascended politician's aggressive emotions. Once the latter was achieved Buffy would use the weakness she discovered during her recovery from significant blood loss to lure the demonic serpent into the school.

That would be where he came in.

The moment he saw Buffy leap exit through the library's rear exit he would press the plunger down, detonating the explosives both homemade and not so homemade. Hopefully the blast would go off right in the Mayor's face with sufficient force to kill him. While it was true that the explosive force of a volcanic eruption had been what killed the last pure demon of this sort, they didn't have the means to match such a catastrophe. The most they had been able to do was gather the necessary material to generate the most potent blast they could and place things in such a way to focus the force inwards rather than outwards. Fire, shrapnel or the shockwave from the detonation would finish off Wilkins either individually or together as a three pronged assault on his demonic flesh.

If God was with them, that would be the end of the man who sought to turn Sunnydale into an all you could eat buffet.

If He was not… then he prayed that Wilkins would be injured enough by the blast to buy the Council time enough to devise a means to finish the job.

Watching from his position of concealment, he could see Willow approaching Buffy's seat before taking on her own and he was glad to see that everyone was now in position.

"Well. What a day this is. Special day. Today is our centennial, the one hundredth anniversary of the founding of Sunnydale. And I know what that means to all you kids," Wilkins said, his voice being thrown forth by the speakers on the stage. "Not a darn thing. 'Cause today something much more important happens. Today you all graduate from high school. Today all the pain and the work and the excitement is finally over, and what's a hundred years of history compared to that?"

 _Bloody hell!_ he thought as he realized that the man wasn't going to go through his entire speech.

"But you know what, kids? Maybe the two things are connected. Maybe you have a place in Sunnydale's history, whether you like it or not. It's been a long road getting here, for you, for Sunnydale... there's been achievement, joy, good times... and there's been grief." Richard spoke to the assembled students. "There's been loss. Some people who should be here today, aren't."

 _It would seem that Buffy's suspicions about Faith being the Mayor's Achilles heel was indeed correct,_ he thought, hearing the emotion bubbling just beneath the surface of Wilkins' voice.

It'd been a topic of some debate during the planning for this day about how they'd manage to lure the Mayor into the school and to ground zero. No projectile weapon with explosive capacity would do enough damage to the Mayor's ascended form without risking the safety of the students or their parents. They had all agreed that they needed to draw him to a prepared kill zone where the full brunt of their decisive attack could be brought to bear on him.

Fanning the flames with pain before hitting him with taunts only Buffy could manage concerning Faith would certainly serve their purposes nicely.

"But we are. Journey's end. And what is a journey? Is it just distance traveled? Time spent? No," Richard said as he proceeded with his speech, "it's what happens on the way, it's the things that shape you. At the end of the journey, you're not the same. Today is about change. Graduation doesn't just mea your circumstances change, it means you do. You ascend to a higher level. Nothing will ever be the same. Nothing. So as we look back on…"

 _A pause? Could it be beginning?_ he thought as he checked to make sure his broadsword was within arm's reach.

"…on the events that have brought us to this day… we…" Wilkins said before a barely suppressed grunt of pain. "We must all… AHHH… It's begun. My destiny. Little sooner than I expected; I had a whole section about civic pride, but… I guess we'll just get to the big finish."

Bellows of pain filled the air only to be replaced by inhuman roars and before long he could see the source as a horrible serpent that could only be at home in hell. Whether that would be a hell dimension or a hell that the Earth had been transformed into he could not say and he prayed he'd never find out.

As planned he watched as gouts of fire shot up from below, causing the somewhat feral Old One to reflexively jerk away from them. Though he was too far away to say for sure, he swore he could see arrows flying through the air but only a random one managed to actually stick into the giant serpent. That was okay. They'd never expected the weaponry at their disposal would be able to do any more than irritate the giant pure demon.

Brrrraapp! Brrap!

 _My God! Is that gunfire?!_ he thought in shock as that variable had not even been considered during the planning for graduation.

For as long as they'd been operating on the Hellmouth, the Scoobies had never truly encountered an adversary that made use of firearms outside of that one Tarakan assassin and the werewolf hunter. They had never considered using them because, not only were a great many demonic species immune to gunfire, but the weapons were not exactly subtle. The rocket launcher had been the exception and only because every source they'd consulted had made it clear that no forged weapon could harm the Judge. Thus, since attracting the attention of the Sunnydale Police Department or accidently harming a civilian was not permissible, they exclusively used more low key weaponry.

So who the bloody hell had brought an automatic firearm to a demon slaying!?

He was tempted to leave his post near the detonator in order to investigate but he knew that if he did and Buffy still made the plan work, it would bugger everything up. So he waited and hoped that one of the students who'd agreed to fight for them just had a relative in the military with a fondness for guns and poor firearm safety skills. Gunfire continued to make Swiss cheese out of the air and, judging from the reactions of the Mayor, the bullets were doing significant harm. A few times he could see Wilkins attempt to lunge at the source, only to be forced back by concentrated fire centered on the former human's eyes.

After the fourth attempt by the Mayor the automatic weapon succeeded in destroying the left eye, causing Richard to rear back, giving out an earsplitting roar of pain as purple blood poured from the wound. Eventually, though, hate overturned pain and the demonic snake directed its gaze back towards the likely source of the gunfire, only to apparently have difficulty in locating his attacker. For a split second he thought he saw something sticking out of the Mayor but, before he could narrow his eyes to scrutinize it, the 'something' exploded.

Exploded right about where the nose would be on a dog and bugger did it get a reaction from Wilkins!

Whoever was attacking Richard was specifically targeting the soft spots that were common to creatures with naturally thick or armored skin. Not a poor choice of tactics but he was somewhat skeptical about the overall effectiveness of the attacks. Many demon breeds had regenerative healing that was fully capable of healing wounds right before your eyes. It was one of the reasons why you needed a weapon that could both do damage as well as hamper the monster's ability to heal. If the Mayor had such an ability on the level of an Old One, the attacks at most would buy the perpetrator a minute or less before all their work was reduced to nothing.

That was when Fate decided to deal him another surprise.

Someone, a young man from the looks of it, suddenly appeared on the rooftop before aiming something at Wilkins that spat bits of fire at him, making that man the one who bolluxed up the plan. The gunfire successfully managed to attract the attention of the Mayor, though, and now that the Ascended being's focus was entirely on him. A part of him was pleased at this since it meant that Buffy could perhaps move to aid Angel in dispatching the hired muscle swifter than originally projected. This would hopefully reduce potential casualties enough that only one or two people would die and that he could live with.

However there were two questions that very much needed answering.

First, who was this unknown person who apparently believed that modern weaponry could kill an Old One?

Secondly, would he actually succeed in achieving their objective?

 _ **The Rooftop of Sunnydale High School**_

 _ **Xander's POV**_

 _Phase one complete,_ he thought as he continued to move while maintaining engagement of the target. _Sight partially disabled and mental state unbalanced. Moving to phase two._

Taking out the BT Delta Tactical Paintball Marker gun, he began to target the intact eye but instead of conventional ammunition the tool fired projectiles filled with a napalm variant. The outer shell was strong enough to survive the initial acceleration but would certainly shatter upon impact, triggering ignition of the compound. The tool didn't have the capacity for many rounds so it would have been inadvisable to utilize it while still on the ground. Now that he was at roughly eye level with the target, the viability and accuracy level were now within somewhat acceptable ranges. Paintballs didn't always fly straight, physics dictated this, but it was close enough for government work and the girls he ran around with. Taking aim he waited until the optimum moment before firing, managing to successfully land almost all the rounds on the undamaged eye. The gelatin-gasoline compound ignited successfully, inflicting ongoing damage to the eye while successfully rendering the target completely blind. Assuming that the target's senses were anything even remotely close to a conventional serpent, his attacks should have left only a limited sense of taste and feeling.

Utilizing stealth movement techniques, he maneuvered himself across the rooftop until he was facing the back of the target's head. Tossing the paintball gun to the side, he moved onto the tools assigned to phase three, which meant a spear gun with a spool of monofilament wire capable of supporting his weight. It also possessed a small motor meant to reel in the line, keeping it tight the entire way but not so strong that he wouldn't be able to fight against it if he applied moderate effort.

Taking a running leap off the roof he fired the gun mid-air and, once it successfully penetrated the skin, the motor began pulling him towards the target. Before the target could react to the pain or conceive of the source he landed, planting both feet while hooking the line onto his belt so he could have both hands free. Reaching to his shoulder harness he pulled out a Desert Eagle before taking precise aim and opening fire, with the intent of seriously compromising the structural integrity of the target area. Once all seven rounds were fired he moved the operation onto phase four by unbuckling the belt of thermite grenades from his body. Going down to one knee he waited until his stance was stable enough before punching his way through the tough outer skin to the soft flesh beneath. Forcefully shoving the grenades as deep as he could, he then did two things simultaneously: he unhooked the wire from the spear gun that was tied to his waist and then leapt to the ground below, dragging the wire that was tied to each of the grenade pins with him.

Letting his knees absorb the impact, he then moved into a roll to take care of the rest. Once he came to a stop in a crouch he looked up just in time to see all six thermite grenades go off, with most of them being beneath the skin at the time. Given the fact that a single thermite grenade was capable of burning clear through tank armor, he was confident that six going off at the same time would be sufficient to make it past whatever natural armor the target might have.

Indeed, instead of another roar or a wail of pain the target simply dropped to the ground even as the thermite began to seek its own exits from the confined space it was in.

Given the lack of biological data on the target beyond vague geological information concerning the termination of another of the same type, he approached while sliding a fresh magazine into the Desert Eagle. Once he was close enough to ensure accuracy while not risking a strategic misstep he took aim at where the brain was most likely to be before opening fire. He placed the shots in order to ensure maximum damage to the cerebral organic matter and did not stop until the weapon was empty.

"Target terminated," he whispered just loud enough for the observation team to hear it with their directional microphone.

He received the countersign via high frequency audio transmitter and, with the conclusion of the operation, he followed S.O.P.

"Well, that went better than I thought it would," he said with no small amount of relief and excitement. "Guess that hypnosis stuff really does work."

Whatever the case, he needed to get to the others and finish mopping up the vamps and demons Wilkins hired to be sheep dogs so his first meal as a pure demon wouldn't get away. Holstering the Desert Eagle he'd liberated from a trophy case at the army base back when they'd stolen the rocket launcher used to kill the Judge, he pulled out a cross and a stake. Nothing fancy but the silver crosses embedded in the stake would make sure that even if he missed, it'd still hurt like a sonuvabitch.

Sprinting across the courtyard, he grinned on the inside as he saw that, while some of the students were hurt, hospital level hurt, none of them were dead. Apparently his bit of insanity had worked out better than he thought considering he only came up with it that morning. Right up until he woke up that morning he'd been willing to go ahead with the original plan but, when he'd reviewed the forces he had to work with, he'd no longer been able to ignore one specific fact: None of the students who'd agreed to fight the mayor had received any combat training whatsoever and were even further behind the curve than the Scoobies were.

Of all the people in the group that'd safeguarded the Hellmouth the last three years, only Buffy, Giles and him had anything even remotely resembling combat training. In all reality it was a miracle that they'd managed to keep things as under control as they had given their lack of training, experience and limited numbers. If he'd followed the original plan they'd have been lucky to make it out with two thirds of their forces alive.

However 'alive' and 'unchanged' were two very different things.

Some would likely come out with scars that would cost a fortune to remove while others might have to drastically alter their lives to compensate for the injuries they'd go home with.

As a result of these thoughts he'd opened up the hidey hole he'd made in the floor of his room to take out his military haul as well as a few odds and ends he'd been working on. He'd never been convinced that the modern age had nothing to contribute to the fight against the darkness so, with his limited expertise, he'd been working on new tools and weapons. The paintball gun with the napalm had been one while the other had been the modified spear gun that he'd originally intended to be a getaway method.

Resourcefulness might as well be a Scooby keyword and he'd proven it.

Arriving at the front steps of the high school campus, he was a little surprised to see that he was officially late to the party. Aside from three vamps who were seconds away from getting staked, there wasn't anything more for him to do so he tucked away the stake and cross, figuring he wouldn't be needed. Once they were sure that everything was copacetic he'd go pick up after himself so the assholes of the S.P.D. wouldn't have anything to work with. While it was possible that with the Mayor gone they'd no longer be looking for excuses to come after the Scoobies, he didn't walk to take any chances.

"Well looks like that's a wrap people!" he said with his lopsided grin and a carefree tone. "Good job!"

"Good job?! Xander what the fuck was that!?" Buffy asked, violently dusting the last vamp before stomping up to him.

 _Okay, now I know she's pissed,_ he thought as he took a few steps back. _Buffy's a lot of things but a potty mouth isn't one of them. Even when those Council assholes came she kept things PG-13._

"You were like someone out of an action movie!" Willow exclaimed, looking to be an odd mix of angry, dumbfounded and in awe.

"Well… I've kinda been working on some stuff I figured would help out," he said, trying to figure out the right way to reply. "And look! It did!"

"What did you do, Xander?" Giles asked, sounding more rational than Buffy.

"Well, you know how some of soldier boy's memories stuck around after Halloween?" he asked, figuring he might as well start from the beginning.

"Yeah," Willow replied, trying to be less confrontational than Buffy but obviously wanting answers just as badly.

"Well, after how well the whole thing with the Judge went, I figured it might be worth digging around to see if there was anything more inside my head," he said, moving the story along to the next logical step.

"Xander, please tell me you did not attempt to use magic to do the 'digging'," Giles said, taking his glasses off with dread.

"Do I look like an idiot?" he asked rhetorically before seeing Buffy begin to open her mouth. "Don't answer that."

Buffy just fumed and told him with her eyes to hurry up and explain himself.

"I looked up books on hypnosis and spent some of my free time during Miss C's computer classes looking up stuff online. I'm not gonna pretend I understood more than half of it but it seemed straight forward enough after going over it for the hundredth time," he explained, remembering the number of times he'd scratched his head in confusion. "So with a tape recorder and some straightforward suggestions I put myself under and, aside from that one time I missed school a week before exams last year, it worked out pretty good."

He could see that Willow remembered that day but that was hardly surprising considering the fact that his best bud was the most academic focused person he knew.

She even put GILES to shame!

"Still, remembering how soldier boy kicked ass and being able to do it myself were two very different things as I learned last summer. Learned VERY painfully as a matter of fact," he said remembering the muscles he pulled when he'd first tried out one of the things he'd dug up. "So whenever I had free time I worked out to get my body where it needed to be to pull off the moves I now 'knew' without putting myself into a full body cast. Wasn't sure I'd worked out long enough before doing all that but I gotta say I'm feeling pretty good. A little sore in places but nothing some Tylenol won't fix."

"And the guns and stuff?" Buffy asked, both looking as well as sounding a lot calmer than she'd been a minute ago.

"The P90, the Desert Eagle and the thermite grenades I 'borrowed' along with the rocket launcher last year," he replied remembering that night. "The spear gun I improvised with some trial and error along with some stuff from the local hardware store. It's not Batman's grappling gun but it can get someone my size up the side of a building… just at a snail's pace."

"But you were going so fast!" Willow exclaimed in denial, pointing back to where he'd jumped off the roof.

"THAT is how fast you'd go with gravity AND the motor working on you," he said, pointing to the same spot and emphasizing certain words.

The Scoobies seemed to digest what he'd told them, consider the feasibility of it all, but eventually decided to roll with it. Not surprising since fighting the good fight on the Hellmouth taught you that if you took too much time asking questions either out loud or in your head, your odds of survival went down. Sure, being dumb and not thinking at all made your survival zero but, when you were right in the thick of things, you needed to make decisions quickly.

The fact that what he'd done had worked out, no muss and no fuss, probably had a lot to do with their acceptance but he wasn't complaining.

"Very good then. Just try to give us a little more in the way of a heads up before you try something like that again," Giles said, choosing to let the matter drop.

"You got it," he said with a lopsided grin.

 _ **A Rooftop Two Blocks Away**_

"MY what a gullible breed," she said before taking off the headphones and beginning to pack things up. "They actually fell for that line of bullshit."

"Of course they did. His entire personality was designed to make him look like an underachieving slacker," he said as he lowered his binoculars. "Even after orders came down to insert him into the Slayer's group, he was ordered not to stand out or do anything out of character unless absolutely necessary."

"I'm still wondering what the higher ups are thinking leaving the fate of the world in the hands of a bunch of high school kids and a British librarian," she said, pulling the zipper closed.

"Don't worry. I hear those C.I.A. idiots are being prepped to set up a black op here to study and exterminate the local nightlife," he said, putting away his binoculars and shutting down the video camera. "It'll take some time to get some traction but as long as they put someone with chops in charge, the world will be a lot safer and I'll sleep a lot easier."

"So what'll happen now?" she asked as she finished packing the equipment used to observe and record the 'final exam'.

"Well, I don't know about the bosses but I'd say he passed with flying colors," he replied as he put the camera away. "If he can take on an ugly ass snake the size of King Kong without a scratch, everything else is going to be a cake walk for him. I figure they'll take a week to review everything, make sure all the I's are dotted and T's crossed, and then put their stamp of approval on everything."

"And then?" she asked, slinging the bag over her shoulder.

"Then it's bye-bye to Sunnydale for good and hello to his new life," he replied, walking towards the fire escape ladder. "We'll probably be called back a few months from now just to keep things close to the script."

"And if his 'friends' start looking for him?" she asked as she followed him.

"Really? You honestly think those amateurs are going to be able to track him down to the places he'll be going?" he asked, not believing his partner had even asked the questions.

"With things like 'magic' being real, I'm not counting anything out," she replied as she reached the ladder.

"If it looks like they're getting too close, the higher ups will cross them off just like all the others," he said, going down the ladder. "Stuck in the sixteenth century like they are, it'll be easy and who knows? Maybe it'll earn us some brownie points with those old men over in the U.K.; I don't think they like that Summers girl very much."

"No shit, Sherlock!" she declared, following him down the ladder. "Now let's get back to base. We need to record the debriefing and get the paperwork all written up."

"My FAVORITE thing in the whole world!" he said sarcastically, stepping off the ladder.

With that the two unseen observers slipped away as the eclipse brought about by the Ascension began to wear off, restoring the normal level of sunlight for the current time of day.

 _ **Undisclosed Location**_

"Well? Are you convinced now?" W-Woman asked, looking at S-Man with a bit of smugness in her tone.

"It is not often that I am proven wrong but for once I am actually quite pleased that this is one of them." S-Man replied, only exhibiting a small amount of bitterness amidst his dominant approval.

"As are we all," N-Man stated, letting his satisfaction be clearly heard. "Based on available evidence, I think it's safe to say that Project Golem is a smashing success. I doubt the outcome would've been any different had the prototype been pitted against conventional opposition."

"While not as overflowing with confidence as you, I agree that Project Golem has proven itself a viable alternative to the Agent Program. We should still search for Doctor Litvenko, if only to ensure he doesn't fall into undesirable hands, but I see no reason why mass production cannot begin now that Feynman's prototype has proven itself," E-Lady stated, looking at each of her colleagues in turn. "Time will, of course, be a factor but now that we have a proven success to work with, we can adjust the timetable to optimize our progress rate."

Indeed, with their superior experience and resources, it wouldn't take much to put all their plans back on schedule.

"Regardless, we should give the order to recall the prototype to the Nevada facility. Until the next batch is ready to deploy, we'll only have the one to utilize in our plans." W-Woman said, having had her fill of vindication.

"Then let's give it," E-Lady said with a smile. "Our weapon has quite a few assignments to work through."

 _ **A Cave in the Middle of the Nevada Desert**_

 _Why did it have to be ME?!_ he thought as he carefully entered the cave located at the X on the map he'd been given.

Sure, he belonged to a clan of demon that'd been indebted to Mayor Wilkins for decades for granting them sanctuary on the Hellmouth, as well as telling the other nonhuman residents not to harm them. Sure, they were part of a species of demon that culturally and magically were bound to hold their end of any bargain up, even if they didn't want to later on.

But WHY did it have to be HIM that delivered the message!?

It'd been less than six hours ago that it'd been confirmed that Richard Wilkins the first, second and third had been killed immediately after Ascending to full demon status. While some of his clan had been happy to finally be rid of the evil human, the elders had quickly reminded them of the stipulation in their agreement with the deceased warlock that they now had to obey.

What stipulation? The one that had him on the front doorstep of one of the most feared mind magic users in North America, that's what stipulation!

The stipulation stated that in the event of him dying by unnatural means, aka murder, they were to notify the being in this cave of what'd happened and more precisely who had to die. It basically all boiled down to getting the last laugh on the person who ruined what was supposed to be the crowning achievement of the man's hundred year reign on the Sunnydale Hellmouth. One would think that the payback would just be the hiring of the best assassins the Order of Teraka had or some curse keyed to activate upon the ceasing of all life signs, but apparently that was too boring for Wilkins. Instead the warlock wanted the occupant of this cave to find the person most responsible for his death and then lock them into their worst nightmare for the rest of their lives. Awake? Asleep? It wouldn't matter in the end. It wouldn't be nonstop torture either way since going that way would desensitize the mind, being tortured sooner rather than later ruining the objective of the vengeance altogether. No, instead it would apparently be keyed to specific environmental and emotional criteria in order to achieve maximum effect.

Stories had been told of the cave dweller's past victims and it'd been enough to cause all but the most sadistic demons to shiver with fear.

He'd heard more than a few of those stories and that was why he hated that he'd been selected by the elders to deliver the information.

Why hadn't he just said 'fuck it' and refused you might ask? Because every member of his clan, the moment they were old enough speak as well as understand, took an oath of loyalty to the clan and obedience to the clan elders. As such he was bound both by the culture he'd been raised to believe in and by the magic inherent in his species to do as they ordered. So even if he were to somehow overcome the magic forcing him to obey the order, he'd be exiled the moment he got back if he didn't follow the order.

So basically he was fucked one way or another.

 _Let's just get this over with!_ he thought as he continued deeper and deeper into the darkness of the cave.

The map, thankfully, included not only a rough layout of the cave but also provided the number of steps you needed to take to reach the mind warlock.

Step by step he went, frequently checking the map if only to provide some kind of distraction from all the story tidbits that kept popping up in his mind. Time ceased to have meaning for him so he had no idea whether he'd been walking for two minutes or two hours, but eventually he came upon an eerie blue flame that was his destination. Looking about he tried to look for anything humanoid, anything that might be the mind mage, but he could see nothing and this fact only added to his fear.

"Hello? Are you here? I have a message for you!" he yelled in the hopes that he could get the whole affair over with as quickly as possible.

"What message?" spoke a voice that was neither human or confined to any one direction.

"'If you are hearing this message, old friend, then I am dead. Whether or not it happened after my plans reached fruition is immaterial. A hundred years of hard work ruined cannot be allowed to go unpunished,'" he replied, speaking the message precisely as it had been conveyed to him. "'Therefore I call upon you to see to it that the person responsible for my death is suitably punished. Do so and I will consider your debt to me paid in full. I leave the details of the punishment to you. All that I ask is that it not be lethal and that it be tailored to fit the person. Farewell, old friend.'"

That was the message.

However he did not leave for he feared breaking some unknown protocol he was unaware of, so he waited to be told he could leave. When a minute passed with nothing being spoken, he could not stand the silence any longer.

"May I leave now?" he asked, unable to keep the fear out of his voice.

"No. There is one more thing I need of you," the voice said ominously.

"What?" he asked, frantically trying to think of what else could possibly be required of him.

His reply came not in the form of words but rather via his sense of touch and his ability to feel pain. Touch came when he felt a pair of the coldest hands he had ever had the displeasure to feel pressed themselves up against either side of his head. The pain came next and it flowed over him like a tsunami, shattering coherent thought as easily as the real wave did concrete. It was pointless to even try to reassemble the thoughts when faced with such a force of nature and made moot as bit by bit the pieces of his mind were devoured.

Devoured by an unseen predator until nothing but a void remained where once a sparkling mind once dwelt.

 _ **The Highway Heading in the General Direction of Oxnard**_

 _ **Xander's POV**_

 _Your training is now complete. Henceforth you shall be known as Agent Grimm. You are ordered to leave Sunnydale under the cover of the previously discussed cover story of a road trip and travel to the Nevada facility. There you will be properly outfitted and receive your first assignment. You are to maintain your cover while en route and not do anything to attract attention to yourself._

Those were his orders.

He received them from his handlers upon returning to the safe house.

In response he had begun to pack the necessary items to maintain the 'high school student' cover, as well as any other equipment that fell under the category of sensitive material. His handlers would handle the rest but it would be efficient to try to smuggle out as much as possible, as soon as possible. While the eyewitnesses might have accepted the cover story, he provided there was still the matter of the potential consequences for killing Mayor Wilkins. According to the answers to his inquiries, his superiors had entered into an agreement with the man for permission to conduct his training in his territory in exchange for aid in keeping certain agencies blind and deaf.

It was a safe assumption that terminating the man would be seen as a violation of the agreement.

As such it was only logical to relocate immediately for a more secure environment while also removing anything that could be used to trace the safe house to the organization. He would not put so much into his bags that they would be visible on the surface but he would do what he could to help expedite the termination of the organization's presence in Sunnydale. The remaining hardware that was too big to conceal would be extracted via trucks disguised as commercial moving vehicles under cover of night. The operatives handling that would be fully briefed on the hostile inhabitants of the town and armed as well as could be permitted without breaking their cover. If extraction of the sensitive hardware could not be completed, it would be destroyed and a plausible cover story established.

It wouldn't be difficult. They'd had years of practice and experience in such matters.

As he saw the sign for the off ramp to Oxnard, he determined that it would be in character for his cover to stop for snack food and drinks before continuing onwards. While he had not detected anyone tailing him since his departure from the safe house, his orders concerning his cover were clear so he activated the turn signal and turned onto the off ramp.

It took only a few moments to reach the first visible convenience store and, as he walked towards the entrance, he began to make a list of items he could both afford as well as consume before reaching the Nevada facility.

"AAAHHHH! HELP ME! HELP!"

A voice, female, requesting assistance and by his reckoning the voice was coming from the alley next to the store. He pulled out the stake and cross he had that was standard equipment for dealing with vampires and effective even against other demon breeds, gripping both tightly. Moving into the alley with the skill level consistent with his civilian personae, he looked for the woman in need of help as well as what threatened her. He could hear the sounds of the woman whimpering and crying in fear but as yet could not see anything of note.

A thought occurred to him that this might be a trap that was utilizing the heroic traits of his civilian identity as the bait but, even if that were the case, he could not deviate from his present course of action. It would be seen as too out of character for 'Xander Harris' to ignore a cry for help or withdraw before a more obvious sign of a trap presented itself. Carefully looking at each possible hiding spot for an attacker as he progressed, he also searched for the woman so he could assess her medical condition before moving her to a safer location.

It was only as he reached the end of the alleyway without a single woman to be had or a potential threat that it was confirmed that he had indeed been lured into a trap.

He had to vacate the area immediately before the cause of his current situation sprung the trap.

Turning around, he found his primary means of retreat blocked by a humanoid figure in a dark robe, a hood obscuring the face. However from what little was revealed of the person beneath it was a safe bet that they weren't human and that was corroborated by the method used to lure him into the alley. However, without knowing the species, it would be difficult to determine the most expedient means of terminating the threat, so he would be forced to improvise. One variable in his favor, though, was the fact that the alleyway would provide sufficient obstructions that he would be able to deviate from the Xander Harris personae without risking his cover.

"Is there a problem?" he asked casually as he tried to get a feel for how his opponent would move.

"Yes, but it is one easily remedied," the figure replied with a rasp.

"Oh? How's that?" he asked, trying to stall for more time.

"Die," The figure replied before thrusting a hand forward and releasing a ball of light.

Dropping the limitations of the Xander Harris personae completely he reoriented his body while throwing the wooden stake towards the figure's chest where the heart might be. For a moment it looked like it would be his first and his last necessary move but, right when the weapon should've begun penetrating flesh, the figure disintegrated into a cloud of ash before fading away.

A vampire? No. The stake had not penetrated enough to pierce the heart and there was usually a two second delay between puncturing the heart and turning to dust.

Teleportation? Possible and, given the speed at which the stake was thrown, the figure had greater than human perception and reflexes. Not a good combination for an opponent to have. However it made him wonder why the hostile had allowed himself to be seen when its objective was his termination. It would've been far more efficient to attack him from behind with a knife to the heart. Was it a cultural requirement for the nonhuman to make his intentions known before attacking? Delivering such information from concealment would have been more strategically sound since it would've made retaliation unlikely. The only answer he could come up with was that the figure was confident that he didn't need to take such measures in order to achieve his objective.

It was after all a fairly consistent trait among nonhuman threats that they tended to dismiss most humans as threats.

An error he would gain satisfaction in correcting with this being.

Above all, though, removing himself from the kill zone the hostile had lured him into was paramount since there was no way of knowing what dangers had yet to be revealed. With steady and precise steps he began to go back the way he came, keeping every sense alert for signs of his attacker's presence. For someone who could teleport, he likely would have less than three seconds to counter any attack, so the time between perception and counterattack had to happen within two seconds. Without his stake, though, he was limited to either using his cross or close quarter combat techniques.

Not good enough.

With a teleporter he had no way to know where the hostile would appear or when, much less if, there was any interval between the use of that ability or not. If the hostile could use the ability at any time or even abort a teleport if it placed him in danger, then his death was a matter of time. The only way to overcome his current situation was to somehow control where the hostile could appear so that he would have enough time to see and react.

Looking about the alley, he tried to find something he could use to his advantage and immediately spotted two that'd do nicely.

Moving first to a metal pipe secured to a nearby wall, he used all the strength he had to tear it off but it wasn't to use it as a weapon against the hostile. Instead he threw it like a spear to the rooftop water tank on the building next to the convenience store. Made of wood it was successfully pierced by the pipe, causing the contents to begin pouring out, soaking the stone surface of the alley. The water spread outwards from the point of impact but by that point he was moving towards the second element of his plan: a cable that, based on is composition, likely channeled electricity to the convenience store. Pulling the cable out of its socket, he hopped on a nearby wooden box that looked to be capable of holding his weight before dropping the exposed wiring onto the soaked ground. If his plan worked the hostile would not be able to appear anywhere within his immediate vicinity without being electrocuted. Based on the estimated maximum range of the water flow, his enemy would have to appear closer to the mouth of the alley or on the rooftop's above.

Neither would be conducive to using bladed weaponry and even the energy projectile he'd been attacked with previously would be reduced in effectiveness.

He was fully capable of dodging both with little need to reposition his feet and the box provided him with sufficient room.

With his move made he waited for the first sign of the hostile knowing he'd likely have only one chance before his enemy adapted to the new circumstances fully. If the figure thought to blow up the box he stood upon he'd be electrocuted. If the enemy proved capable of a larger scale projectile attack it would make dodging impossible. If the hostile simply waited until someone cut the power, his plan would be neutralized.

Thus his nerves were sharp and his awareness of his surroundings as close to total as possible.

The instant he sensed a presence that was not civilian or even human he threw the cross at it, knowing that the sharp point he'd carved into the bottom was strong enough to pierce flesh. He was betting that the likely momentary disorientation that accompanied the teleportation would buy him half the time he needed while reacquiring his position would do the rest. He'd made sure to aim for where the right eye socket would be since, even if it did not succeed in killing the nonhuman, the hostile would be incapacitated until the cross was removed and regeneration was completed, if there was regeneration at all. There probably was; he wasn't that lucky.

The fact that the cross had been stopped less than an inch from the target's eye by some unseen force confirmed that good luck was a limited quantity with him.

"An admirable effort," the figure said, the cross hovering backwards a foot, lazily rotating in place, "but futile."

As if to press this point home the figure walked forward and, instead of convulsing in pain when he came into contact with the electrified water, there was nothing.

Instead of wasting precious minutes with denial he began analyzing what he'd just witnessed and added the results to his knowledge of the situation. There had been no visible source for the cross' unexpected deceleration so that meant unseen. Of all the unseen sources he was aware of, magic was one, with telekinesis being another. However this didn't match what happened during his first attack because in that exchange the figure had more than enough time to see it coming. There would have been no need to teleport if the stake could so easily have been caught mid-air. Also, the ability to be impervious to significant electrocution brought up the question of why the figure had taken so much time before approaching him.

While it was possible that these inconsistencies could be explained away as required preparation time or psychological warfare, he didn't think so.

All of his actions up to this point had been spontaneous and at best gave the hostile ten seconds to figure out what he had planned. To anticipate his actions sufficiently to prepare like this, long term surveillance would have been necessary and, aside from his sanctioning of the Mayor of Sunnydale, he had never openly used his skills to the fullest. Also, if there had been surveillance agents following him around, his handlers or their superiors would have sensed something and issued a warning.

Just then he heard a cackle and out of the corner of his eyes something loped out of sight, only letting him catch a glimpse of something on four legs.

That was it.

It explained everything.

However a test was required and so he closed his eyes bringing forth his considerable focus before he willed the electricity to coalesce and rise up from the ground in the form of a snake. Using his will and focus like the source of power it was, he was unsurprised when he saw a crackling serpent rise up off the ground just like he wanted. Given that he had never before exhibited magical ability, something that'd been attempted once the discipline had been confirmed as real, there was only one explanation.

"We're in my mind," he stated as he stepped off the box, not feeling even a little bit electrified.

"Indeed and a most unique mind it is, Alexander Harris," the figure said before the cross winked out of existence. "We've been here from the moment you stepped into the alley and out of the sight of any witnesses. You see, I needed time to map out your neural pathways, so I've allowed you to believe that you were still in the real world. That is the reason your first attack caught me by surprise and why I waited to reveal myself again."

"Why haven't you killed me, then? I imagine it would be quite easy for you to do in here," he said as he tried to devise a means to gain the advantage.

"You mean my earlier comment? That was a distraction and it would be far too quick an end to clear my debt to Richard Wilkins," the figure said, coming to a stop ten feet away. "He requested that your punishment be non-lethal and tailored to who you were. Now that I've had time to familiarize myself with your mind, I believe I have just the punishment for you."

"If you knew my mind so well, why did you let the Hyena Primal alert me to the truth?" he asked, referring to the spirit that had possessed him and left an echo behind.

"That shadow? It is no threat to me and its warning came too late," the hostile replied, sounding unconcerned and dismissive.

It was an admirable attempt at bluffing but he had been trained well in spotting the signs of someone speaking falsely.

"No. She did succeed in warning me in time," he said as he began to walk towards the figure. "In fact I would wager that you haven't gotten all the control codes to my mind just yet, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to manipulate the environment."

"Believe what you will, Mister Harris," the figure said, maintaining the easy composure. "The time has come for you to pay for killing my 'old friend' and it is a punishment that will have you both begging to be slain and killing anyone who tried to oblige you."

"We'll see about that," he said before he brought his will to bear again, utilizing it to alter his position in the current mindscape.

In the blink of an eye he was behind the figure and well within arm's reach.

Bringing up both arms he attempted to get a grip on the figure's head so that he could snap the hostile's neck. However before he could lock in his grip the enemy vanished again, reappearing a dozen feet away. He didn't let it say a word as he teleported again but unlike before he made his mental self reappear above his target before accelerating his body downwards, an axe kick ready. The figure managed to dodge this as well but a brief glimpse past the hood told him that the hostile had not anticipated the current development. Even as he willed the fragments of concrete he'd shattered up into the air before propelling them at his enemy, he surmised that mapping a mind wasn't the same as reading it. The hostile possessed a map of roads but no labels to tell him the names of each road or their individual history. At most the figure could probably read surface thoughts or get brief glimpses of a target's next action before it happened for real.

Certain in these conclusions, he factored them into the strategies and tactics he'd been taught in the sub-basement of the safe house.

Picking up the pace of his attacks he attempted to use every element of his surroundings, randomly changing the vectors the assaults would come from. At least it would appear to be random to someone with only a few moments to think at a time, but the truth was more calculated. Every attack was meant to chip away at the hostile's defenses while maneuvering the figure right where he wanted him. It was one of the most repeated lesson he'd been taught: always control the battle. Never allow your opponent to dictate the pace of the battle. Make them dance to your tune and only let them realize this when knowing will not affect the final outcome.

It was about two minutes later that all the variables fell into place and, with a ruthless gut punch motion, he slammed a mass of stone into the figure's stomach, this time connecting and sending the hostile to the ground. He didn't stop there; with a field goal kick the ground beneath the enemy shot upwards, right into the five streams of elements streaked downwards towards the target. Narrowing his eyes in order to confirm impact, he was satisfied to see that the five streams struck successfully, sending his foe through the ground that sent him skyward.

Ending the assault he approached the figure that'd been sent by Mayor Wilkins as a form of retaliation from beyond the grave but he never let down his guard. While he might have fared better than he'd initially projected, he would not stand down until he was certain that his foe's threat was ended. From what he could see his attacks had done harm to the figure's mental self, for it was exhibiting many of the similar symptoms of injury a physical body would. Whether it would be enough to kill it, he did not know.

"I… did not think it… possible…" the figure said, pausing to draw in additional strength. "A man… with no experience… in the mental arts… coming this far in… minutes… amazing…"

"I've always been a fast learner," he said, standing less than three feet away from his foe. "Now release me from your power. You're in no condition to accomplish your mission and keeping me here would violate the terms of your repayment to Wilkins."

" Perhaps…perhaps you're right…" the figure said with a rueful grin on his face.

Instinct flared with warning but, before he could do anything, the hostile vanished from before him and a second later fingers pressed themselves to either side of his head.

"Then again perhaps not!" the figure hissed into his ear even as he was assailed in a manner that fractured coherent thought. "You should have finished me when you had the chance!"

With those final words the mental landscape around them shattered like it'd been made from cheap glass before beginning to swirl around them like the inside of a tornado. If he had been coherent he might have spotted that each fragment had a scene playing out on it. Had his mind the ability to fully register what was going on, it would have registered wisps of emotion that had before now been felt on a more detached level. Sadly, whatever the hostile was doing it had taken him so completely by surprise that marshaling his will and his focus was like trying to wrap your fingers around water.

"In the name of the debt owed to Mayor Richard Wilkins, I so punish you, Alexander Harris!" the figure yelled into his ear. "What was once two shall merge to become a new whole! What once brought you great satisfaction will be dangled in front of you forever just out of reach! You shall never know true peace but rather a life of regrets and bitter sadness! Only when you are reunited with the source shall your torment come to an end! SO I HAVE SPOKEN SO SHALL IT BE! SO SHALL IT BE! SO! SHALL! IT! BBBEEEEE!"

All at once the fragments that had been swirling around streaked towards the two of them until it felt as though they would be crushed into fragments themselves.

Then it was all gone and he felt like a puppet whose strings had been cut, causing him to fall to the ground, his mind too much of a mess to do more than bring his arms up to cushion his fall. Breathing hard like he'd just run a marathon at twice the recommended speed he pushed himself onto his back as he tried to make sense of everything. The alleyway next to the convenience store was back and somehow he knew that this was the real deal rather than some telepathic illusion. When he tried to think of what to do next, he was pushed back into confusion as two answers came to him, feeling like they'd come from two different people rather than from his own mind. One was telling him to get into his car and head back to Sunnydale to get help from Giles but the other was telling him to get the encrypted cell phone from his bag and call in what'd happened to his superiors. Both felt like they'd come from him but at the same time… not.

In the end he came to the decision that he needed to first get away from Oxnard and find someplace to hole up where he could regain his equilibrium and figure out what the HELL had just happened.

What the hell happened and what the future held for him now.


	2. Some Messes can't be undone

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the copyrighted materials contained herein. They are the rightful property of their respective creators and/or associated companies. I make no profit from this whatsoever and I have no intention of changing this at any point in the future. I write because it's fun and because there are people who enjoy reading my work. Therefore I would greatly appreciate it if no legal action were taken against me. Even if you got everything to the last penny it probably wouldn't cover even half your legal fees.

 _ **Nevada Facility**_

 _ **Doctor Feynman's POV**_

He was sitting in his office drawing up the series of tests he'd be performing on the prototype when it came in to measure its capabilities scientifically as well as determine if the time on the Hellmouth had adversely affected it. Even ten years later he was still thrown by the discovery that all the things he had been told as a child were make believe did actually exist and preyed upon the ignorant. He knew that as a result of this discovery a new division was being set up under the guise of a black ops American military operation to explore this new level of reality. If he were not so crucial to Project Golem he would have put in a request to be involved since being at the forefront of something groundbreaking was always quite the thrill.

In any case he knew of a few colleagues who would be assigned to the new division and, while he knew any communications between them would be closely monitored, he would still ask them to keep him apprised of any new developments. Once full production began and they had a healthy number to work with he would likely only be required to handle major problems that cropped up. He had been thorough with his work right up to the point where the prototype left its incubation capsule and closely monitored everything until its departure for Sunnydale, so he was sure he'd covered everything. Nevertheless if there was one thing science had taught him it was that the unexpected could creep up on you without warning and chaos could strike even in the most controlled environment. Only through the utmost diligence and resolve could such surprises could be contained, analyzed and neutralized before they could ruin everything.

He was about halfway through his second draft when the door was flung open and the second-in-command of the facility's monitoring division rushed in.

"Doctor Feynman! We have a problem!" Mister Brown exclaimed, looking quite worried but not quite to the point of losing all composure.

Just enough that he set down his pen and gave the young man his complete attention.

"What is it, Brown? I can't recall the last time I saw you so flustered," he said as he waited patiently for the young man to elaborate on the situation.

"The prototype has deviated from its assigned travel route and is not responding to attempts at communication!" Mister Brown replied, sounding quite alarmed by this anomaly.

This caused him to raise an eyebrow in mild surprise but not to the same degree it had obviously hit the monitoring division member. While it was odd for the prototype to deviate from a provided plan, he was not too concerned since he had not created some mindless automaton that had to be told to do something before it would do it. He had given birth to a weapon system capable of adapting in the blink of an eye to any type of x-factor that came its way and overcoming it. If the prototype had deviated from the established route it had been told to take, it was for a valid reason. If it was refusing to respond to attempts at communication then it had a reason.

Perhaps it was being followed.

Perhaps it had reason to believe its communications might be compromised.

He could only speculate at this point and The Four would want more than that when they learned of this development, so he rose from his chair before walking towards the door.

"Very well, let's see what we can do about this," he said as he passed Mister Brown and proceeded to head to the main monitoring room.

As he walked he continued to think about the possibilities, the good as well as bad, and how he could manipulate matters towards the most desirable outcome. They were already well on their way there after the report its handlers had provided about its final exam, even he had to admit to being amazed on the performance levels recorded. He'd already compared them to what they had on file for Litvenko's Agents and in all but one measurable variable his prototype had surpassed them by a measurable amount.

Unconventional thinking.

Despite the successful termination of Mayor Wilkins all of the strategies and methods used by the prototype had been both invented as well as perfected by another. One of the things that allowed the Agents to be so successful in their contracts was their ability to come at their targets in a way that could not have been anticipated. Using known tactics meant that someone else had done it before and therefore had been disseminated to others in a position to find out about them. Known tactics could be anticipated, planned for and countered successfully.

The Four did not want a weapon that could be countered successfully. They wanted a weapon that could reach anyone, anywhere, and do whatever was required as per orders.

As such everything that could be done had been done to nurture creative thinking and an ability to see what others could not so as to catch them completely by surprise. There had been signs of this talent after the prototype had allied with the Slayer and the Watcher but the reports suggested that there was indeed room for improvement. Fortunately he had been able to make a compelling argument to The Four that this could be done in the field on assignment rather than through another round of supervised training.

Now, though… now he needed to find out precisely what had brought about the deviation before determining the correct course of action.

Arriving at the main monitoring room he could see a map of Nevada with a blinking red icon on one of the roads indicating the present position of the prototype. From what he could see, instead of taking the highway out towards the concealed facility the prototype was going towards Las Vegas and travelling a little above the posted speed limit. This would certainly indicate an anomalous situation but not one that posed a serious threat to the prototype.

A tail perhaps that had not been quantified enough be given a label requiring relocation to a populated area to lose it? Possibly.

"Status?" he asked as he stepped up to the commander of the division.

"Agent Grimm has entered the Las Vegas city limits," Commander White replied professionally before tapping a few commands into his keyboard to bring up additional information. "We've tried to determine if he's being followed by tapping into the traffic cameras and satellite imaging but so far no red flags."

Odd.

"Status of Agent Grimm's vehicle?" he asked as his scientific mind began to work through the problem.

"Based on what we've seen via the cameras there is no visible damage to the car whatsoever," Commander White replied, bringing up four images confirming the man's words. "This image we managed to get gives us a good look at Agent Grimm."

The image popped up and what he saw was not the composed and professional face he'd been expecting but rather the look of someone severely emotionally shaken.

This did not bode well.

Without a reason to support the idea of injury or drugs he could only conclude that something had happened to upset the balance between the Agent Grimm personae and the Alexander Harris personae. It had been a risky job inducing a split personality but with the foremost experts on the subject aiding him he had been confident that they'd been successful. The idea of having a flawless civilian personality at the ready while the Agent Grimm personae waited beneath it to be activated seemed to be an ideal scenario. When the former needed to blend into the crowd he would give off no tells that would alert enemy forces that he bore watching. Then, when needed, the Agent Grimm personae would emerge to carry out whatever mission objectives had been set out.

Best of all the civilian personae would have no idea his other half existed while Agent Grimm would have access to all Alexander saw and heard.

The prototype had been thoroughly tested to ensure the viability of the dual personalities and had passed to the satisfaction of The Four.

He was far from having concrete information but a destabilization of the balance between the dual personalities would explain a route deviation and a break in composure. As such priority had to be given to bringing the prototype in so it could be analyzed, the problem found and then corrected. If he handled it expeditiously enough then The Four would likely overlook this deviation as a minor hiccup and barely worth a footnote in the official records.

"Implement alpha one takeover of Agent Grimm's cell phone and open a connection," he ordered, deciding to end things promptly.

As soon as sound came through the speakers that came from the phone he began the process to bring his creation in.

"Code One, Beta One, One Alpha. Acknowledge, Agent Grimm," he said, using the code phrase designed to induce a compliant mental state.

When no response came he repeated the code phrase at a louder volume than before, just in case the cell phone's speakers were lacking.

There was still no response from the prototype.

"Command code Alpha Prime Omega eight one," he said in a firmer tone of voice than before. "You have deviated from your assigned course, Agent Grimm. You will turn around and proceed to your destination. This is a direct order. You WILL comply. Omega zulu seven two four."

It was the strongest code phrase that had been assigned to him that was designed to shut down the prototype's conscious mind, essentially allowing him control Agent Grimm by remote control. Oh, he wouldn't need to constantly fire off a stream of commands but rather just make all the important decisions that might come up. It would be enough to get the prototype to the facility, afterwards it'd be restrained before undergoing a refresher course in the techniques used to create and stabilize the dual personalities. Hopefully this would remedy the situation and allow for a safe resumption of normal activities.

"Go fuck yourself," was the angry response he received from Agent Grimm.

Needless to say it was a safe bet that NO ONE in the room had been expecting that, much less himself.

Determined not to let this go the way it looked like it would go, he fell back on his strongest card.

"Command code Alpha Prime Omega eight one!" he yelled, trying to imitate the more intimidating of the troop commanders. "You WILL proceed to the Nevada facility IMMEDIATELY! COMPLY!"

"No," Agent Grimm replied, anger mixed into a healthy dose of strain. "Never again."

With that there was some noise and then nothing before a symbol appeared on the screen indicating that the cell phone was no longer transmitting. Either Agent Grimm had shut it off or destroyed it.

It was probably the latter.

"Orders, sir?" Commander White asked, sounding like he was worried if the repercussions would fall on him.

The deterioration of his prototype's mental condition was evidently more serious than he'd originally thought, making a controlled reacquisition… unlikely. That left only one other option open to him but it would likely be decidedly less low profile than would please The Four, even if certain precautions were taken.

"Prep tactical teams one through three," he ordered, hoping that luck would choose to favor this choice just this once. "Civilian clothes and concealable weapons only. Their orders are to locate and capture Agent Grimm. Alive. Make sure they realize that killing or irreparably harming Agent Grimm will make both me and The Four very upset with them."

He knew that he was placing a severe handicap on the tactical teams, given that the prototype had been specifically designed to be able to wipe the floor with twice as many armed men. It was his hope, though, that the evident emotional and mental instability exhibited during the phone conversation would hamper the prototype enough for the tactical teams to emerge victorious.

They would have to time their attacks for the moments in which the mental instability spiked but the organization did not have any amateurs in any field in their employ. The men would capture the prototype and all he would have to deal with would be ire of The Four as they learned of how his creation had gone off the reservation, forcing deployment of armed assets. It would not be pleasant but he could dump most of the blame on the unforeseeable inhabitants of the Sunnydale Hellmouth, though he would not be able to escape the blame entirely. He didn't have the tenure or the importance of some of the other scientists of the organization had and this had been his bid to move up in the world.

He could only hope that they would limit their punishment to assigning a supervisor to the facility that he wouldn't particularly like for an unknown period of time, along with passing him over for advancement for an unknown period of time.

The other likely road of punishment would lead him to being 'raw materials' for someone else's experiments.

It was not a position anyone would want to be, whether they were sane or insane.

 _ **Las Vegas, Nevada**_

 _ **Motel 6**_

 _ **Room 105**_

 _ **Xander's POV**_

"Man! Am I in trouble or WHAT!?" he exclaimed as he paced back and forth at the foot of the bed.

His mind rocked as it somehow came up with two responses to that rather than just one. The first was 'no shit, Sherlock!' while the other was 'the threat level is significant and rising', but they both added up to pretty much the same thing.

Since he had left Oxnard his mind had barely been coherent enough for him to drive safely without hitting anyone or getting hit himself by someone with bad reflexes. For the entire trip it had been as though two minds were vying for the driver's seat in his brain and it'd been hell maintaining any kind of stability. It'd only gotten harder when a call forcefully connected to his cell phone with some asshole on the other end spitting nonsense at him that only made his head hurt more. The bastard had thought that it was his God-given right to tell him what to do, treating him like he was a thing, like he was PROPERTY! How dare he! He'd told the man precisely what he thought then tossed the cell phone out of the car to shatter on the pavement behind him.

The numbers, the words, spoken to him had pulled at bits of his mind and induced feelings of compulsion in him but he used his will to smash them aside. He was no one's slave! No one's PROPERTY! Still that left one question: who was he?

Agent Grimm?

Xander Harris?

He wanted so badly to come up with an immediate answer he could rely on but he could not.

Sitting down on the bed he closed his eyes in order to direct his focus inwards in order to seek the answers that refused to come casually. Almost at once his memories of Giles trying to teach Buffy meditation came to the surface, immediately causing him to jump on it as a tool to get what he wanted. As he utilized the steps he could feel calmness begin to settle into his mind but with that calmness came other images that he could not decide if they were memories or hallucinations. He could see… faces, faces that he recognized as belonging to friends of Tony or Jessica, but each of them was behaving differently from what he believed he knew.

John Chang, Tony's college buddy, who'd spent a summer at the house while his own home was repaired from some quake damage.

John Chang who he could now see wearing a dobok that he somehow knew was the uniform commonly worn by practitioners of Korean martial arts. Flashes appeared of him fighting Chang in some kind of gym but he knew that there were no martial arts schools in Sunnydale, or not as long as he'd been there.

Chad Aromdee, Jessica's co-worker, who'd been transferred from her insurance firm's Thailand branch and had stayed for the winter while his American citizenship paperwork got settled.

Chad who he recalled being in the same hidden gym wearing loose blue gym shorts and had his shins, fists and his forearms taped up, possibly to protect them. Wearing neither shirt nor shoes but with a mongkon, a headband worn by Muay Thai practitioners, he remembered fighting this man as well with painful connotations.

Again and again images of 'friends' or 'coworkers' of his parents popped up, each of them appearing to be teaching him something or at least testing him to see if he'd retained what he'd been taught. It wasn't just how to fight either: guns, bombs, security systems and so much more were apparently drummed into him. He… he couldn't remember any specifics but the deeper he went into his meditative state, the more he was certain that the knowledge was there. Whatever was keeping him from consciously accessing the knowledge was proving as difficult to get, like swimming upstream in a particularly fast running river.

For every three inches of progress you made the water pushed you back two.

It was possible that with enough time, effort and concentration he could get through but the part of him that'd felt compelled to obey the orders of the guy on the phone was against it. Going too deep for too long into a meditative state would render him vulnerable and the odds were good that his defiance of orders would result in his forced acquisition by armed men. He wanted to rebel against this thought because it was nice to believe that by ditching the phone he'd rendered himself untraceable. However the more cynical part of him pointed out that if he couldn't trust his memories about his parents then it also meant he couldn't trust his memories of his Uncle Rory either.

It also meant that his car could be bugged as well.

However instead of screaming at him to vacate the premises and lose himself in the crowd, his more pessimistic side was only moderately concerned. A thought caused the reason to pop up in that being in such a populated area any pursuit forces would be limited in what they could use if they didn't want to draw the attention of the local police force and news choppers. Concealable firearms and communications gear mixed with waiting until he was someplace less bustling with people meant he could exert a certain level of control over their movements.

As for when he expected that they'd arrive… within the hour. Maybe less.

Eyes snapping open and taking in the interior of his room, he found himself more stable mentally than before. This was a good thing because he'd need a steady mind in order to get out of the fix he now found himself in. Getting off the bed, he went over to his suitcase to see what he had to work with because, without that information, he wouldn't be able to come up with a plan. He immediately set aside the clothes since, to the best of his knowledge, there was nothing special about them or concealed within them. Then he tossed aside the usual odds and ends that everyone brought on a long road trip, leaving only three things that were alien to both teenager and Scooby.

One Bowie knife and corresponding belt sheath.

One Desert Eagle semi-automatic pistol with four clips of fifty action express bullets and a shoulder holster for both.

One black taser, the non-wired kind, large enough that it could be used as a blunt object but small enough to fit into his pants pocket.

The first and the third were okay since both could be used without making too much noise, with the exception of the noise made by the person on the receiving end. The second one, however, would let everyone within a five block radius know something was going on and only if he somehow managed to lure the pursuit team into an environment where the noise might actually muffle the gunshots would it be viable. Otherwise he'd have to keep it as a weapon of last resort and finish his enemies quickly once he started to use it since he would have at best twelve minutes until the police showed.

At worst they'd arrive in nine minutes.

As such in order to kill as many of them as possible in as little time as possible he'd need to force them into a confined area with little cover, save where he would be waiting for them.

Not too difficult since they'd done it regularly on patrols with Buffy but he had a feeling that the men that'd be coming after him would be a bit smarter than most bloodsuckers.

Funny thing was he had a feeling that he was smarter than he thought, too.

 _ **Entering the Las Vegas City Limits**_

"ALRIGHT! LISTEN UP!" he yelled to quiet down the chatter both in his van as well as the two coming down behind him. "I'm only going to say this once so burn this into your brains! Our orders are to locate, neutralize and then deliver our target back to HQ. The target is an organization asset that's gone off its program and it's our job to drag it back home to get it fixed."

Now came the bomb that he knew they weren't going to like.

"The target is the prototype of Project Golem. The project's goal was to produce an operative that was either on par with or superior to an Agent. By Agent I mean the same sort as our old friend Agent 47," he said and let the men groan with displeasure at the fact. "Our orders also make it clear that we are to take it in alive and minimally damaged. Nothing permanent. As usual the priority is the successful completion of the mission. All else is expendable towards that end. That being said the bosses would be pissed if we made too much noise and got cameras pointed our way, so silencers on everything and make sure you factor in civilians before you open up on the target."

This only got a few cries of dissatisfaction and one comment that could've been a disparaging remark about the intelligence of their superiors. It wasn't that he didn't have a few moments like those of his own but he knew better than to say anything out loud. It was no secret that the people in charge were crazy about security so everyone figured that they had eavesdropping devices planted all over the place. Officially it was probably to ensure that no sensitive materials were tampered with or removed from the property without official authorization.

Unofficially it wasn't unheard of for those who made ill-conceived comments within range of these devices to suddenly have a ball of bad luck dropped on them, no warning.

"Now we've managed to track down the target to a Motel Six in the city. The tracking chip in his car is putting out a signal loud and clear," he said, holding up a handheld device with an antenna on it. "However that's only the case via our stealth satellite. On the ground all we'll have are these."

More groans of dissatisfaction.

 _I'll have to put them through their paces when we get back,_ he thought with a frown of disapproval. _There will be NO whiny bitches on my teams!_

"The one variable we have in our favor is that the target's mental state is believed to be unbalanced as a result of the break from programming. This means hesitation, distraction and possibly spikes of pain. Use that to your advantage," he said as he got the briefing back on track. "We'll be coming at him from three fronts to divide his attention. Team one will come at him head on and draw his fire. Team two will be across the street on the rooftop both for long range efforts and to spot him in case he tries to rabbit. Team three will come in through his room's rear either via window or 'new door'."

It was a tested tactic that'd proven effective against rogue Agents they'd been sent to deal with and only one had managed to overcome it, the aforementioned Agent 47.

With the target only recently graduating to field status and experiencing 'technical difficulties', there was no reason to believe that it'd fair as well as an Agent, who many considered to be the best of the breed.

"Remember: shoot to wound, not to kill. No irreparable damage is to be done," he said, emphasizing each word. "If the target gets out of the immediate kill zone two teams will pursue on foot while the third will remain mobile in their vehicle get ahead of it and cut it off. All of our vehicles are bulletproof and explosive resistant. Use that to your advantage."

Then came the part of the briefings everyone probably knew by heart.

"As always, if HQ calls for an abort or if the press encroaches on the battlefield, everyone is to back off immediately. Fade into the crowds and regroup at the Las Vegas safe house until the heat dies down. After that it's back to the facility for a debrief and new assignment."

Assuming, of course, they survived any disciplinary action ordered by The Four.

"Now let's lock and load people!" he yelled before pulling the slide on his Glock 19.

Slides cocked, magazines slapped into place and silencers screw into the barrels could be heard both in his vehicle and over the coms-gear.

The rest of the gear they had was tech gear for overcoming technological threats, gas grenades to obscure themselves from unauthorized eyes to facilitate escape and lastly a package of sedative-filled needles to use on the target when they got the chance. According to his own private debriefing, the target did possess a greater than normal physical resiliency than ordinary humans and conventional medication wouldn't last as long. By his reckoning they'd probably have to dose the target at least twice in order to get him back to the facility without any trouble. The other three dosages were only if something happened to the first two or if the target proved to be more resilient than even the man who created it thought it was.

He certainly hoped it wasn't since, unlike some people, he wasn't a big fan of surprises.

Minutes ticked by as the drivers navigated the streets of Las Vegas towards their destination but eventually they arrived and thankfully the drivers had the sense not to stop quickly enough to cause the tires to screech. Such stops might look good in the movies but doing it here would also alert the target that they'd arrived and he wanted to remain undetected until the very last minute.

Getting out of the van, he watched a team head around back while the third went for the rooftop of the building right across the street, all according to plan.

Using the tracking device it didn't take long to follow the signal being put out by beacon in the car but once they were within twenty feet they knew which room the target was in so he signaled two of his men to creep up to either side of the door. He and the remaining two took up positions behind the parked vehicles closest to the room ready to open fire should the target come their way.

Watching as the man on the left side of the door placed small charges where the hinges of the door would be, he took aim at the door and then waited for the next phase. With a look to him and a nod from him the charges went off, causing the man on the right side of the door to charge in, gun ready to shoot. The man who'd set the charge followed immediately afterwards and then came the demands for surrender under threat of force. It was at this point that he expected a fight to break out since the noise from the violence would give the team going around back the opening they needed to bust their way in unobstructed. When it didn't come he began to worry that something fishy was going on because, in his experience, targets given this sort of treatment NEVER came quietly unless they had something up their sleeve.

"Cuff him, drug him and drag him!" he yelled to the two men inside, not wanting to stick around to see what the proverbial sleeve was hiding.

He was about to move in with another, leaving the third outside, when a flash of light caught his eye. When he turned to see what it was surprise and fear welled up within him but fortunately his years of experience kept him from freezing up. Without any hesitation he whirled around and tackled both men to the ground less than two seconds before the gasoline he'd seen being ignited caused the car it'd come from to detonate. Fire and shrapnel went everywhere but thankfully his actions had proven to be enough to keep the three of them from getting more than a few scrapes.

"This is team leader! Team two move in!" he exclaimed as he got back to his feet and followed his own order. "Team three! Eyes open for anything! Do not let the target escape!"

Following the rules of his training he brought his Glock up into the ready position and first took up a position on the left side of the doorframe before peeking inside to get the lay of the land. He was not happy to see that, sometime between the issuing of the surrender order and the explosion, the two men that'd gone in had been incapacitated. He could tell from the rise and fall of their chests that they were still alive but the nasty bruises told him that it was unlikely that they'd regain consciousness any time soon. Looking for the target, he spotted the door to the bathroom swinging shut and immediately moved towards it, gun up with eyes looking down the sights. He was just about to carefully enter as training demanded when things went straight to shit.

CRACK! CRA-CRACK!

 _Team three!_ he thought as he picked up the pace to reinforce the men engaging the target.

Making it to the bathroom he broke through the door and went to the open window just in time to look through to the chaos on the other side.

What he saw made him wonder if Doctor Feynman should've sent ALL the tactical teams in to reacquire the asset.

 _I haven't seen such a one sided fight since one of the newbies got mouthie towards the chief in boot camp,_ he thought as he watched five men get thrown about like amateurs.

The men were giving it everything they had, with one or two of them actually surprising him with some of the moves they were pulling off. However all this did was buy them a few seconds more before they got slammed to the ground. Working his way through the window he landed on his feet and brought his pistol to bear while he waited for an opening. While he was the commanding officer of the operation, he didn't put his hand-to-hand combat skills THAT much above those of his comrades. Once the third team dropped down to only two standing he took aim, waiting for the right moment to open fire. Naturally he would aim to injure rather than kill since an injured opponent would be easier to bring down, thus reducing the possibility of needing to use lethal force.

Seconds passed but to his surprise the target was actually managing to keep the two remaining members of team three in his line of sight, preventing a good target from showing for more than a second. He'd seen the tactic used before but normally there were twice as many men used since only two didn't provide much cover. He tried to feint the target, trick him into manipulating his two teammates in the wrong direction, but it did not work, or at least not swiftly enough.

Fortunately he didn't have to fight alone for much longer as the two remaining members of his team approached from the right, weapons at the ready.

Too bad the target saw them too and realized that he would soon be at a disadvantage.

Five are harder to best than three after all.

He expected the target to run to find a more favorable location from which to fight but instead another path was unveiled as the young man reached into the pocket of one of his opponents and took something. He did not know what it was until it was thrown on the ground but the smoke that gushed from the canister made it clear that it was a smoke grenade. Within seconds the one they had been hired to bring back was obscured by smoke and, without infrared goggles, it was impossible to see what lay within the cloud. He could hear sounds of violence but until the wind cleared out the smoke, he could tell nothing more about the situation within.

It was only when the sounds of feet running away reached him that he realized the purpose of the smoke grenade was to cover the target's retreat.

"Team two! Do you have a visual?" he asked of the men he'd ordered to take up observation atop a nearby roof.

"Wait… wait… got him!" the leader of team two said with certainty. "He's heading for the street opposite your position!"

"He has to be seeking transportation. He destroyed his own," he said more to himself than to the leader of team two. "Get to street level and move to intercept him. If he gets to a car and gets away, pursue him. The rest of us will follow."

"Acknowledged," the leader of team two said before the line went quiet.

As this happened the smoke from the grenade began to clear and he found that in the confusion of its appearance the remaining two members of team three had been defeated. He was somewhat surprised to find that they still lived but, judging by the angles of some of their limbs, they would be out of action for at least several weeks. It was puzzling, though, that the target did not kill team three since it was a serious deviation from what he'd come to expect from the 'assets' of the organization. Almost all of them were lethal and, unless specifically ordered not to, would choose lethal force to resolve most human obstacles.

This one, for some reason, wasn't, and while a part of him was glad the men under his command were alive, another part of him wished otherwise.

Failure was not rewarded in the organization and, depending on how big the failure turned out to be, the punishment could be something so severe he would not wish it on his worst enemy.

Without another thought he charged off after the asset while using hand signals to the two remaining members of his team to get their car. While he hoped that team two would be able to prevent the rogue asset from becoming mobile, nothing about this mission was running true to form.

He had no reason to believe it would suddenly get back on track anytime soon.

 _ **Xander's POV**_

 _Have to find a place to turn things around,_ he thought as he made his way to the far side of the property. _They've got the numbers and I have no idea how many weapons on hand._

True, from what he'd seen so far they looked to be interested in taking him in alive, but there was no guarantee that that would always be the case. If it turned out that he was more trouble than he was worth, they might invariably decide to just kill him and be satisfied with a corpse. That would also happen if things got a little too public for them because organizations with hit squads tended to like staying in the shadows.

So maybe the trick to getting out of this in one piece was to go someplace where there'd be tons of witnesses and cameras so they couldn't do anything to him without drawing that unwanted attention down on their heads. The only problem with that idea was that if the people after him decided to push their luck, he'd be endangering civilian lives if a gunshot missed him for whatever reason. Regardless, if it would aid in his eventual escape from his pursuers, too large a part of him would consider that unacceptable. At the moment he figured it was safe to say that the dominant side of him now was Xander Harris rather than Agent Grimm and the teenager from Sunnydale refused to condone using innocent lives as pawns. Looking ahead, he spotted a guy on a motorcycle coming to a stop in front of a traffic light and immediately chose that to be his way to put some distance between him and his pursuers.

"Sorry! Gotta borrow this! Get it back to you later!" he exclaimed really fast as he grabbed the guy and pulled him off the motorcycle before tossing him to the ground.

Hopping on, he realized that he'd never before ridden a motorcycle before but he shoved that thought aside figuring it couldn't be all that much different from riding a bicycle. It'd just be a lot faster and weigh more.

Definitely.

Revving the engine he let go of the brake and before he knew it he was shooting off down the street, reflexively weaving around traffic before his brain caught up to what was going on.

 _O-kay! So it's a lot different from riding a bicycle!_ he thought as he tried to keep from crashing into anything while also maintaining speed. _Still, in for a penny, in for a pound and all that shit!_

Regardless of his inexperience with motorcycles, it still provided him with the best option for getting clear of his pursuers, especially since he blew up the car his 'Uncle Rory' gave him. It'd been a bit painful destroying his first piece of freedom but, when he'd realized that there was a good chance of a tracking mechanism being installed in it, there'd been no other choice.

Not with the time he'd believed he'd had before company came calling.

He'd been lucky to stick as much of his travel money as he had on him into his pockets as he could but as it was there'd be no way he could afford a new vehicle. That meant either stealing one or relying on public transportation. Both had some pros and cons going for them but that could wait until after he lost the armed thugs at his back. Taking a moment to glimpse behind him, he was quickly able to spot two vehicles coming up quickly from behind. While on the surface they blended in with the rest of the traffic, to his eyes it was easy to see that they were working their way up the mass of traffic towards him. It was to his credit that they hadn't yet decided to bring out their guns but he figured they were probably waiting until they were close enough to guarantee a hit.

Directing his gaze ahead, he looked back and forth, trying to spot a place where he could have the final confrontation safely as well as in his favor. Unfortunately for him a lot of the places within his line of sight were lit up and had people inside of them, crossing them off the list of possibilities. Needing more time he pushed the bike harder, going through every gap the motorcycle was capable of fitting through, hugging the bike as closely as possible to cut down on wind resistance. Blocks passed him by and, despite his best efforts, traffic didn't always favor him, forcing him to slow down in order to avoid crashes, allowing those behind him to get ever closer. It wasn't until he saw a fenced off construction site that he felt he'd found what he was looking for since at night it'd be empty of people and there would be a great deal of options for improvised weapons. Angling towards it, he abandoned the motorcycle the moment it could get him no closer to the fence and went the rest of the way on foot. A short sprint got him to the gate and to his great fortune whoever had been charged with locking up at the end of the day hadn't bothered to chain it up.

While part of him wanted to look a gift horse in the mouth, the rest of him was just glad to have found what he needed and slipped into the construction site without a thought…

…and right into some kind of meeting between two groups of bikers.

For a moment he thought he might be able to just turn around and leave before he got noticed but that idea died a quick death when one by one each of the leather clad men cocked their guns and aimed them at him.

"Um…oops," he said, trying to seem as unthreatening and therefore as unshootworthy as possible. "Sorry about that. Took a wrong turn. I'll just be-"

"You're not going anywhere, boy," one of the biker's said raising his impressive looking revolver to emphasize his point. "Not until you've answered a few questions. Now get down HERE!"

Deciding that it would be in his best interests to do as he'd been ordered he swiftly but not TOO swiftly since that might agitate them into shooting. While he'd found out much to his surprise that he was capable of evading gunfire by predicting the trajectory's that the bullets would travel and making sure he wasn't there when they were there, he wasn't going to push his luck. His previous success had only been with five people trying to take him alive. Taking on fourteen people who would without a doubt would do everything they could to kill would likely be decidedly more difficult.

"What are you doing barging in here, boy?" the one with the longest beard of the group asked in an unwelcoming manner. "This here's a private meeting."

"Like I said, wrong turn," he replied, keeping honest but at the same time close to the vest. "I said 'no' to the wrong people and now they want a word with me. If you just let me go I'll get out of here before they catch up and drag you into things."

While he didn't particularly care what happened to the bikers, since anyone looking to meet in the middle of a construction site at night probably wasn't up to anything kosher, but he had no desire to get sucked into a threeway fight, with him being the only one on his side.

"Anyone comes here spoiling for a fight's gonna get one they'll never, EVER, forget," the Bearded Leader said, not sounding concerned in the least.

A few of the other bikers made a show of their weapons to emphasize their faith in them.

While he did have to admit that the firearms the bikers had were more impressive than what he'd seen his pursuers use, the question of skill had him concerned.

"Still, I'm sure you guys have better things to do then get involved in a fight that doesn't concern you and doesn't offer any kind of payday for winning," he said, trying one more time to convince the gathered bikers to let him go. "So what do you say you let me go so you can get back to… whatever it is you were doing before I stumbled in here?"

He waited for a favorable reply but some higher power must've not liked how things were going, namely his way, because, before the leader of the group of bikers could reply, his pursuers finally caught up, guns out ready to take a man down. When they saw him standing not too far away from the bikers, he could see the wheels turning in their heads as the new variable was factored into their decision making process. One of his enemies stepped forward, the leader, hopefully, to diplomatically reach an understanding with the bikers regarding who got custody of him.

It's what he would've done.

"Turn the boy over to us NOW," the leader of the pursuit force demanded in a no nonsense tone of voice.

 _Not good. Bikers aren't exactly a play by the rules especially if they're meeting in secret,_ he thought, not particularly happy at the turn of events.

"You'd best watch your tone with me, asswipe," the Bearded Leader growled warningly as he brought his gun up threateningly. "I'm not the sort of man you piss off."

"Neither am I," the Pursuit Leader said with one level higher degree of warning. "You've stepped into some trouble that's too big for you to handle. Do the smart thing and turn the kid over before things get nasty."

"Oh, we know all about 'nasty', don't we boys?" the Bearded Leader asked rhetorically as he looked around at his fellows.

 _Why does it always turn out like this?!_ he thought as he looked around for the closest satisfactory cover.

"In fact, let's show'em what nasty REALLY means!" the Bearded Leader declared, sounding as though his pride and his anger were inflamed enough to override his better judgment.

Less than a second later he dove behind a stack of I-beams to his right and only just managed to get to safety before the bullets started flying.

He feared for the world when HE was the only rational person in the proverbial room.

 _ **Strike Team Leader's POV**_

"This is NOT going to go over well with the higher ups, sir," his second in command said before returning fire at the bikers.

"No shit, Peterson!" he growled before he did the same, though failing to score a lethal hit. "That's why we can't go back without anything to show for all this ruckus!"

A spat of nasty gunfire put action to the words and managed to claim the life of one of his men in the process.

The bikers weren't anything special in terms of skill but they weren't as restricted in terms of weaponry and the firearms they carried were deadly enough to mitigate the skill difference. While he had little doubt that his men would emerge victorious eventually, he didn't think they'd be able to manage before news choppers and police showed up.

Fortunately, unlike some of the muscle heads he'd worked with in the past, he didn't let himself get bogged down in a macho fight club match. His objective was the recovery of the rogue asset and to return to HQ once he had it. Nowhere in the briefing he'd received did it say he had to kill everyone who got in his way, no matter the cost.

"Johnson! Kensington! Lee!" he said after pressing the transmit button on his coms-device. "When I give the signal I want you to focus you're fire on the bikers furthest from the target! You don't have to hit anything, just make them take cover!"

"Got it!" came from each of the men.

"Clarke! Ambrose! McMillan!" he yelled to the other set of men. "Give me and Peterson cover fire from the rest when we make our move! As soon as we have the target secured evac back to the vehicles and pull out!"

"Gotcha!" the others said between readying their weapons.

He didn't know what the odds were but he hoped that the chaos of this gunfight would be enough distract the target and let him get his disabling shot in. He'd only get one shot before he'd be forced to test his luck against the rogue asset up close and his position on that front could not be called optimistic. Still, both his pride as man and a warrior demanded that he give it his all.

Hopefully even if he failed the fact that he'd done all he could would keep the repercussions from harming anyone other than him personally.

There tended to be a lot of splash around when it came to punishments.

Slapping a fresh mag into his Glock, he took a deep breath to get himself in the zone and peeked once more over cover to confirm where the target was before going for it.

"NOW!" he yelled loud enough for everyone to hear him, including his teammates.

Just like the trained professionals they were his comrades didn't hesitate to follow his orders and he sprinted for the rogue asset, bringing up his Glock and waiting for that perfect shot that'd get things rolling his way. The dirt popcorned a few times when a few rounds from the bikers hit but for the most part they seemed to be keeping their heads down. As for the target, it took another three steps before he noticed the oncoming threat and inwardly he smiled at this. It was one of the riskiest plays in the book but those few seconds when the enemy reoriented themselves to shoot at you was often the best time to shoot at them. They'd often be off balance and in no position to properly shoot their weapon, providing you with a moment of vulnerability to take full advantage of. The dangerous part was that the window only lasted a couple of seconds and if you missed it, you were pretty much at point blank range with your dick in your hand and that was NEVER good.

Aiming for the hip area, since it'd make running away decidedly more difficult and hopefully knock the asset on his ass, he waited for his aim to settle and then pulled the trigger.

It should've been a slam dunk.

Instead the target somehow managed to reorient his body in a way that should've been impossible, causing the shot to just scrape against cloth before harmlessly hitting dirt. It wasn't super speed or some sort of comic book bullshit like that but rather like the target knew where the bullet would travel in time to get out of the way with athlete level human speed. In any case he pressed his advantage since, with all of the ruckus, he couldn't let things drag out too much longer without ALL of them winding up on TV.

Seeing the target's Desert Eagle come up, he thought for sure he'd be leaving to meet his maker sooner rather than later but Lady Luck hadn't deserted him just yet since a pull of the trigger yielded nothing but a click as well as a slide locking into place. He didn't know what kind of glitch had just saved his life but he wasn't going to argue with it.

Deciding to get in close before firing off another round he tackled the target full steam ahead, taking both of them to the ground before rising up only as much as he needed to in order to aim the barrel of his Glock where he wanted it to go. Unfortunately the target quickly realized this and with one hand grabbed the barrel and kept it from getting anywhere near its body.

 _It shouldn't be this hard!_ he thought as he tried to force the barrel to go where he wanted it to go.

Sure, he knew that the rogue asset was probably the organizations latest attempt to make a lethal operator from hell under their control but in the position the two of them were in at the moment they should've been more or less equal in strength as well as leverage. However no matter how hard he tried, the most he was managing to do was slow the efforts of the target to push the Glock away from either of them. THEN in a disarm move he'd never seen before his gun was sent flying a good half dozen feet away before coming to a stop next to a sack of cement mix.

 _Guess it's time to see just how far above the rest of the team I really am,_ he thought as he rolled off the target, got to his feet and assumed a proper CQC stance.

The second he was ready and his opponent was still only halfway to his feet he charged in, going for a low kick aimed right at the side of the head. This was blocked by a forearm but, before the asset could grab it, he pulled it back before going with a knee thrust but this missed its target due to a tilt of the head. Sure, if he'd put a bit more speed on it the knee would have impacted the collarbone, but after seeing how the target had taken apart team three he wasn't permitting any holds or bone break opportunities. Bringing his knee leg back, he brought an elbow back to deliver a blow to the head or the neck but before he could execute the asset moved back as well as the rest of the way vertical.

 _Shit!_ he thought as he realized his best chances for ending the fight quickly had come to an end. _Guess we gotta do this the hard way._

Determined not to give his opponent any time to think he immediately went all in with a series of combo moves meant to overwhelm defenses and do some damage once you broke through. So imagine his internal surprise when not only was the asset able to keep up with the barrage but didn't look as stressed about it as he should've been. He was throwing some of his best stuff out there, the kind that made him a contender against just about any black op elite operative out there, and the rogue asset was making this fight to the finish look like a sparring match.

When the target went on the offensive, though, he found out just how wrong the term 'sparring match' really was.

In a sparring match both fighters might go all in but they also did what they could not too seriously injure their opponent. The fight was also more or less even since no one would set up a mismatch between combatants where one didn't stand a chance of beating the other. In this one instance it was definitely heading towards mismatch territory and, after a right hook that had him seeing stars for a few seconds, he decided it was time to up the ante a bit.

Reaching behind him he pulled his combat knife from its belt sheath before bringing it up into the proper position.

"That's not a knife," the target said with a lopsided grin as he reached behind himself. "THIS is a knife."

What got brought out was a bowie knife that looked wicked sharp and definitely had a few inches on his combat knife, but he didn't let that shake him. As with so many other things, it wasn't the size that mattered but how you used it that mattered.

"Yeah it is! I'll like adding it to my collection!" he said before executing a feint, slashing and succeeding in actually drawing some blood on the rogue asset's upper right arm.

Feeling pretty good at getting at least one solid hit he began to employ all of his feint combo moves with his blade, thinking it might be the key to ending this. He hadn't forgotten about his orders but a few cuts in the right places would lead to blood loss, reaching enough of a low that things would tilt in his favor. Once that happened a backhanded slam to the temple and the target would be KOed and ready to be doped up for transport.

A few minutes later his strategy bore fruit as the first sign of sluggish movement revealed itself so he prepared himself for the final blow. Had a target spot all picked out so all he needed was the right opportunity to pounce and the fight would be his.

 _It's been a tough job but once more the skills put me on top!_ he thought as he saw victory come his way. _Guess some lab job still can't beat hard work and experience._

Thirty seconds later the moment he'd been waiting for appeared so, with all the speed and skill he had, he went for it…

…only to find out painfully that it wasn't his moment that'd come.

It was the target's.

Looking down at the bowie knife buried to handle in his side, he wondered how in the hell that'd happened. He'd been right on target, then… then… suddenly there was nothing but air where soft flesh should've been and a sharp pain blossomed in his side.

"You should've left me alone," the target said before pushing him to the ground, causing the pain leaking from his side to spike.

Before more could be said gunfire forced the asset to withdraw and he thought he could hear Peterson yelling at him to hang on. He couldn't help but feel a little warm at that because, in organizations like the one they belonged to, you were usually discouraged to feel anything besides professional respect for your teammates. Why? Because you learned quickly that, depending on how a mission went, you might be ordered to put a bullet in one of them either to keep them from being taken by the enemy or as punishment for screwing up. It was a lot harder to do that to a friend than it was a teammate and if you hesitated, there was a chance you'd get served up some lead as well. Self-preservation was a wonderful motivator when it came to keeping yourself detached both from your target and from your teammates.

Yet somehow the guys and gals of the tactical team still managed to form close bonds with one another.

Was it enough to go up against the brass if things got hot? Probably, but he wouldn't let it go that far.

He'd kill himself before he brought death to his team.

He was the commander, after all, and it was his job to get things done and bring them home safe.

 _ **Xander's POV**_

 _SHIT! Stirred up a hornet's nest now!_ he thought as he plucked his Desert Eagle off the ground and slid behind some cover.

Sliding his bloody Bowie Knife into its sheath he popped the empty magazine from his gun and slid the final one he had in. The guy he'd just taken down must've been their C.O. and he knew if anyone managed to take down Buffy he'd waste no time in dealing out some payback on their sorry ass. Still, at least with their leader gone and their heads set on revenge they wouldn't be thinking straight and he could use that to his advantage.

It'd have to be something sweet because he was down to his last mag and not enough of the bikers or the mercs had gone down for him to deliver a KO rush attack to either of them. Besides, the bikers, as much as he could tell, hadn't done anything too him to warrant a dirt nap and it was probably a safe bet that the mercs were the same. One was just dealing with a situation that'd been dropped in their laps while the other was just following some orders on pain of nasty punishment. As a result he wasn't inclined to kill any of them and that was the reason why he'd made sure to put the blade of his Bowie knife someplace that'd take the guy out of the fight but not kill him in less than three hours. If the guy got to a hospital quick enough he'd live and be back on the job within a couple of months.

Still, with only one more mag for his gun he'd need to either get his hands on another ranged weapon or think about making a break for it sooner rather than later. With a little luck the bikers would keep the mercs occupied long enough for him to get lost in the crowd and, if a little more luck dropped from the heavens, maybe the mercs would back off, allowing everyone to come out of this alive.

He tried peeking over his cover to see how things were shaping up but, just as the top of his head peeked out, an inner danger sense had him yanking it back down. A good thing, too, since a barrage of bullets chipped away at the concrete, making it clear that the mercs knew precisely where he was and weren't looking to just wound him anymore. Odd considering it'd probably be a violation of orders to bring back a corpse rather than a live target but maybe his skewering their boss was making them a bit irrational.

His mind worked, trying to think of some kind of plan he could implement that'd get him clear of the fight but, just as his worry reached pre-freak out levels, he heard something.

 _Clear your mind! Focus! Ignore the context and focus on the content! All of them are just game pieces on a board. Take what you know of each piece and what you want to do. The rest will take care of itself._

It was a rough voice that said that, a woman's voice, and it was with one of those voices that you'd expect a longtime smoker to have minus the random hacking coughing.

He… he couldn't put a face to the woman but he thought she might've been trying to teach him something when she'd said those words. He felt strength in those words, like he was getting taught by Joan of Arc or Wonder Woman, so he closed his eyes and worked to clear his mind. First went his random thoughts, then the noise from the battle going on around him and finally the before as well as the after of the situation he was currently in. Then he began to bring up the hard data in his mind about the players in the scenario as well as what speculation he had about their behavioral tendencies. Finally he took stock of the weapons he had as well as what improvised ones he might find on a construction site. Then, like a very long game of connect the dots, he began working to create an order of how to handle things that would maximize enemy casualties while also leaving him in a condition where he'd be able to flee the area afterwards. Every time he got to a dead end in his reasoning he started from scratch while keeping in mind what'd stopped him cold the last time around.

It felt like it'd taken forever but in reality it'd only taken a few minutes to come up with a combination of moves to get the outcome he wanted so, with a snapping movement that was almost mechanical, he opened his eyes, ready to go.

Completely coincidentally that was when a spotlight from a news chopper chose to drop down on the construction site but it was a welcome distraction for everyone other than him.

Body ready for prime time he darted out from behind his cover, firing three shots at both hostile parties to make them keep their heads down. The last one he fired at the lock on the shed he was heading towards, obliterating it, making accessing the contents that much easier. As soon as he was inside he dropped to the ground to avoid the retaliatory gunfire but as soon as it stopped he got into a crouch, looking to see if his hunch had paid off.

It had.

Popping open a box he quickly took six individual sticks of dynamite out and tucked them beneath his belt for later use. Since he was without a lighter he also grabbed a box of matches that'd been stored a safe distance away before stuffing them into his pocket. Finding a bucket of nuts and bolts and bent nails he put two handfuls of those into his other pocket before moving on to the rest of the shack. Finding two hammers, one with a square shaped head while the other a claw hammer, he slid them under the front of his belt. Looking around a bit to see what else there was to be had with the time he had remaining before the mercs attempted to swarm his location, he found a bottle of something and while he didn't know what it was, the label had the symbol for flammable on it. It wasn't big so he'd probably manage four or five easy squirts out of it before it'd lose its feasibility as a weapon but just the same he slipped it into his back pocket.

Hearing the sounds of three sets of booted feet getting closer he grabbed two handfuls of nuts, bolts and nails from where he'd gotten the first pocket full before waiting for the right moment. The second his sense of hearing told him the time was right he rushed out the door and threw the contents of his hands in as wide a spread as he could in order to get all three attackers at eye level. Taking the time to only confirm that his actions had resulted in the desired response he pulled out the hammers from beneath his belt and went to work. Quick, powerful blows were performed, the targets being the gun hand of each enemy, causing enough pain to make them drop the firearm and in one case breaking a bone in the man's hand.

Once all three were disarmed he began attacking them like someone who played the xylophone professionally except instead of wood or steel he was striking bone. If a targeted area was removed from range it didn't take much to adjust the trajectory of the hammer's head to strike someplace equally good. Before two minutes had passed all three men were on the ground, groaning, with their ability to move anything joint related severely impaired by pain.

Looking back at where the three had been he could see three more firing to keep the bikers busy but he knew that sooner or later one of them would look in his direction if only to see how their friends were doing.

He decided to beat them to the punch.

Taking one of the sticks of dynamite from his belt and a match from his pocket he tore the fuse off at the three second mark before lighting the match and lighting the fuse. Throwing it at the group of three mercs, their instincts caused them to scatter but the blast still managed to disorient them enough that the bikers were able to shoot two of them, though only one lethally. Whether by luck or chance the injured one and the one that'd gotten off without a scratch managed to make it to cover. Still, the numbers were against them and they'd get a lot worse when the cops showed up thanks to the news chopper overhead. With a set up like this it'd be perfect for him to slip away so without hesitation he made began to make his way back for the gate of the construction site.

BOOM! BA-BOOM!

Before he got even halfway there dirt got kicked up a helluva lot more than could be managed by any pistol but he didn't stop to look around. Seeing a cement mixer close by, he immediately put it between him and the direction he figured the shotgun shots had come from.

"You think you can just walk away after bringing down this shit on me and my crew, asshole!?" the Bearded Leader yelled, clearly almost frothing at the mouth in anger. "Yer ALL gonna die tonight!"

Instead of cursing his luck or trying to talk his way out of the situation he just factored the new development into his most victory probably scenario and moved. Striking another match he lit another stick of dynamite and threw it at the bikers but he hadn't been aiming to land it in their midst, but rather next to the stack of thick cable spools some of them were using for cover.

BOOM!

The force of the explosion was enough to knock the stack over and for the bikers not quick enough to get out of the way got crushed under the weight.

Without breaking stride he reached his next piece of cover and just in time too because, if the bikers weren't after his blood before, they sure as hell were now. Still this could work in his favor as he took another stick of dynamite from his belt and put it in just the right spot, making sure it stayed put. Once he was sure that it wouldn't fall to the ground he took the bottle of flammable from his back pocket and sprayed a line from the stick to the ground before running for his next destination.

A smart person might be wondering why he wasn't doing anything more than running and hiding but, then again, the bikers were thinking with their penis compensators, so smart didn't enter the picture. As it was, though, his plan for dealing with them almost didn't come off the way he wanted to due to the size of the bottle he'd snagged but thankfully he managed to finish his roadmap before the last drops of the liquid fell out.

 _Still need to work fast,_ he thought since he knew if his trail dried up, it'd all be useless.

Waiting for the pause of reloading guns, as soon as it arrived he made for the edge of the construction site… but not before lighting a match and dropping it on his 'path'. Just like in the movies the flame hit the flammable liquid and then, like a snake slithering along, it spread back the way he'd come. The thing to remember, though, was that the trail he'd laid down would take the fire to the sticks of dynamite he'd stick next to the major joints in the metal framework surrounding the bikers. Thus, as the fuses on each stick were lit, it was only a few seconds later before they blew, seriously compromising the stability of the framework. He'd known from the moment he'd come up with the plan that just putting the sticks anywhere wouldn't do a thing, so he'd purposefully put each one at the proverbial 'joint' of the framework. It'd been a bit of a gamble but it was paying off as the bikers scattered in all directions, only concerned with getting out of the way of the falling metal as quickly as possible.

He could just leave it at that.

A near miss with death plus a lot of kicked up dirt clogging up the air would buy at least ten seconds before the bikers got their wits about them enough to go looking for payback. But if he'd learned anything from the fight so far it was that the bikers could hold a grudge and might very well chase him all over town if he let them. So instead he got a visual lock on the nearest one and charged in, hammers in hand.

Knowing he wouldn't have time to get all fancy like he had with the three mercs earlier he went immediately for spots that'd either score a K.O. or a K.I.A. As soon as he saw the lights go out he moved onto the next one, determined to take out as many of them as he could before they could get their act together. With no bullets in his gun and them being still armed, he could very quickly have the tables turned on him if he wasn't very quick. By the time he was down to three bikers they were over their shock and self-preservation so, as the barrels began to swivel in his direction, he threw the claw hammer at one before suddenly dropping to his knees, allowing momentum to carry him along. As soon as he was within range he slammed the other hammer into the knee of the guy on the left, causing him to cry out and pain as well as causing the shot from his Colt 1911 to go wide.

This brought him to the Bearded Leader himself so, with a slight adjustment, he managed to get one foot planted, allowing him to rise up off the ground with his empty hand clenched into a fist. It succeeded in connecting to the man's jaw but it definitely wasn't made of glass because, instead of dropping like a puppet with its strings cut, the man just staggered back a couple steps. Figuring the guy was going to be tougher to put down he began to lay into the man with a combo of fists and hammer strikes, the first of which was used to knock the shotgun to the ground. It was after his second or third combo of strikes that he paused to see if the leader of the biker group had had enough and it was with some satisfaction that he watched the guy drop to the ground alive but banged up.

Looking about the area for any other challengers, he was pleased to see that, aside from two mercs, the rest were out of the fight and most of the bikers were either dead or in need of a hospital.

No one would be following him when he left this construction site.

Still, as he looked at the two mercs who'd apparently decided that pressing their luck wasn't the right thing to do, a dark possibility rose in his mind. His mind was still fuzzy on the details but he was fairly certain these guys knew a lot about him and that included both the names as well as the addresses of the people he cared most about in this world. Now while he could hope that they'd just keep sending goons after him with ever-rising armament and skill, the lives of his chosen family was not something he was willing to leave up to chance.

Advancing on them with the most intimidating stare he could muster, he waited until just the right moment before pulling out his Bowie knife. Seeing this, the uninjured merc began to bring his weapon to bear in order to defend either himself or his comrade or both.

That just made his choice easier.

With a flick that was too quick for most people to see his knife was sent flying, catching the armed merc in the left eye socket, piercing the brain behind with quality metal. One lifeless corpse later and he could tell that the injured merc on the ground was VERY scared and that made it all the more likely that he'd both remember as well as deliver his message.

"I don't know why you and your friends are so hot to make me your little wind up toy and, to be honest, I don't fuckin' care," he said in a tone he usually reserved for vamps he truly despised. "When they cart your ass back to the office you tell them something from me: you can come after me all you want but you so much as set eyes on my friends back in Sunnydale and I… WILL… END… YOU. I will come down on your entire organization like a force of nature and dedicate my life to turning it into so much worthless ash. You won't know when and you won't know how but it WILL happen and there won't be a damn thing you can do about it! You tell your bosses that! Got it?!"

"Y-yeah! I got it! No problem!" the injured merc said, jerkily nodding his head in fear.

"Good," he said and with that he began to make his way for the exit even as the sound of sirens filled the air.

Pulling his knife out of the dead merc's eye socket he quickly slid it back into its sheath before dumping all the improvised weaponry he'd acquired on site. If he'd had more time and a little planning he would've had a way to wipe the prints off but he figured doing that was pretty useless with a car registered to him in flames and the news chopper probably having gotten a good shot of his face.

In short trying to keep them from finding out about him would be a wasted effort at this point so the best he could do was to make a run for it. With a little bit of luck he could get out of the city before they set up any check points on the streets leading out of town.

Then again, if his luck had been anything resembling good luck, he would've been able to escape the mercs after the first exchange.

Yeah.

Life was definitely going to get 'interesting' from here on out.

Note: Before you guys go all Mythbuster on me I do know that no single stick of TNT or even three sticks of TNT could do the damage I had happen. The simple fact of the matter was that I needed a resourceful looking way for Xander to kick ass and take names beyond simply running around the battlefield clobbering them all. Just write off the discrepancy as something akin to Hollywood magic. After all Mythbusters already proved that a gas tank of a car being lit on fire won't cause it to explode like it does in the movies. Take this as a variation of that.


	3. Pieces that move and were moved

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the copyrighted materials contained herein. They are the rightful property of their respective creators and/or associated companies. I make no profit from this whatsoever and I have no intention of changing that in the future. I write because it's fun and because there are those who enjoy reading my stories. Therefore I would very much appreciate it if no legal action were taken against me.

PS-Positive reviews will be appreciated. Constructive criticism will be considered but not necessarily acted upon. People looking to bash my work or try to bully me into giving up writing will be ignored at the very least and review blocked at the very most.

 _ **Giles' Apartment**_

 _ **Sunnydale**_

"GILES!"

He almost dropped his cup of tea at the commotion as two people came barging into his apartment but fortunately his years of work as a Watcher gave him some resistance to being startled.

"Giles, you gotta turn on your TV right now!" Buffy said, having finally been identified after her violent arrival.

While he was tempted to ask for more information before complying, he could tell by the frantic energy coming from both young ladies that it would just be quicker to do as they asked. Getting out of his chair, he walked over to the television set that had come with the apartment but that he had never really gotten any use out of. Mostly due to the fact that what Americans considered 'entertainment' was really little more than teenage drama nonsense or supernatural related shows that had factual errors all over the place. The news wasn't much better since the anchor persons seemed to care more about what'd earn them the most ratings rather than informing the people of what they needed to know. Still, if the girls thought there was something he needed to see immediately, he would oblige them until evidence to support their position evaporated.

Pushing some of his reference books out of the way, he turned the television on before turning to the girls and asking, "Is there a specific channel I should turn to?"

"It won't matter! It's on ALL the channels!" Willow replied, sounding like she wanted them to hurry up.

Mentally shrugging he turned the dial once, since all he was getting was static on the channel that the TV had been on, but it was then that the redhead's words were proven accurate. On the screen was camera footage clearly taken from a helicopter and written on a banner at the bottom were the words 'FIREFIGHT IN LAS VEGAS'. While a tad dramatic for his tastes, he could not refute them since the footage clearly showed the brief pops of fire coming from the barrels of the guns the men below were using. There looked to be two… no, three sides to the fight, but with the third only consisted of one person who mostly kept to themselves unless provoked. While this was certainly a bit out of the ordinary for news, he hardly saw a reason for the girls to be all excited like they were.

That was until the screen changed to show various photographs of the people believed to have been involved in the altercation.

Most of them were your stereotypical biker thugs but it was the picture in the lower right hand corner of the TV screen that had his attention welded to it.

It was Xander.

"What the bloody hell is going on!?" he exclaimed as he tried to figure out how the lad had gotten himself mixed up in something so high profile.

"That's what we'd like to know!" Buffy exclaimed, clearly not liking this newest development. "All they said was that it started out as a chase, ended up in a construction site and Xander's one of the only people to make it out of the firefight alive!"

Listening to the anchorwoman speaking on the matter, he could safely say that the young man had seriously outdone himself as far as getting into trouble was concerned. From what he was hearing, half the combatants were members of two notorious biker gangs that were tied to numerous crimes perpetrated across the country. What was puzzling to both viewer and anchorwoman was that the two gangs were supposed to have been rivals, occasionally getting into scuffles over territory and illegal businesses. Theories ranging from potential peace talks to lesser ranked members of each gang planning a coupe de tat against their superiors were spoken of over the air but there didn't seem to be any concrete proof for either possibility.

As for the other combatants, besides Xander, however were labeled as ordinary civilians but, given the weaponry 'a private source' revealed as being in the possession of these 'ordinary civilians', he very much doubted they were so normal. More than likely they had training and, if no law enforcement branch was claiming them, it either meant they were employed by someone shady or were undercover and therefore couldn't have their true loyalties exposed.

Whatever the case, it was unlikely that Xander would be forgotten by anyone, whether they were criminals or law enforcement. He was involved in a very publicized altercation that had resulted in multiple deaths and no small amount of destruction. Depending on how the bikers and the unknowns chose to view things, they might seek out Xander with the same level of determination that the police no doubt would be.

In short the odds were not good for Xander.

"We need to find him!" Willow exclaimed, clearly bubbling with concern for her best friend.

It wasn't that he could not understand her concern or did not share in it but, unlike them, his mind was clear enough that he could see the landscape of the situation.

"As much as I would like to leave Sunnydale to aid Xander, I'm afraid it's impossible." He hoped they didn't blow up too much.

"WHAT!?"

"But he NEEDS us!"

 _So much for that hope,_ he thought. "I understand that however we are ill prepared to provide any aid in a situation such as this. We are adversaries of the vampire, the demon and the wielders of dark magic. We know nothing of criminal organizations or how to fight using modern weaponry."

It was a fact that, in all the centuries since the first Slayer had been Called, the number of times they'd been exposed to guns, bombs and modern weaponry had been few indeed. Whether it was due to personal pride or culture, the various demon breeds had always preferred to rely on what they knew and what had proven itself effective in the past. As such it had never been a priority for any Watcher assigned to a Slayer to instruct them in gunplay or how best to handle various explosives, whether it was their own or an enemy's. Even if by some chance a past Slayer had gained some familiarity in the subject and passed it down through the Slayer essence to Buffy, it likely resided on a subconscious level. It was only through the guidance and training of the Watcher that such knowledge was brought into the conscious mind and that took time.

"Besides that, intervening to help Xander runs the risk of alerting the parties involved in the matter to both our presence and our abilities. While I believe that the Council might be willing to exert some influence over the American government to negate conventional law enforcement, the biker gangs and the unknown men are another thing altogether," he said, trying to convey to them just how infeasible aiding their friend was at the moment. "The best I can do is make a few calls to some… friends I know who might be able to take some of the pressure off of him. It'll mean calling in some favors I'd rather save for potential end of the world scenarios but I'm willing to make an exception in this case."

The looks he got from Willow and Buffy pretty much said 'you had damn well better be willing', so he was pleased that he'd been wise enough to escape that potential snafu.

As for which favors he'd be calling in, he supposed that the most effective would be someone in the American judicial system as well as someone far enough up the chain of command to influence investigations not their own. He'd made a few friends over the years either due to his less than ideal youth as 'Ripper', or as a member of the Watcher's Council, so he was sure at least one of them would be able to help.

 _I just hope that Thomas is in a good mood,_ he thought as he moved over to the telephone. _Odds are good that I'll wind up owing HIM one if he agrees to help._

The man was a believer in the law and loyal to his country, much like all federal agents were, so asking him to insert himself into an investigation AND show special consideration to Xander would be pushing it. Still, it was the only suitable favor owing person he knew of this side of the pond that wouldn't wind up raising more eyebrows then anyone wanted. Sure, he knew a few people in MI6, every Watcher did, but it would likely only make the authorities even more suspicious if a foreign law enforcement agency attempted to push an investigation away from a specific person. If push came to shove he would make the call and hope that his old friend Olivia would be in a position to aid him, or at least provide him with some information about the other participants of the shootout. With that information he would hopefully be able to gain a better understanding of his young friend's issue and deduce how best to aid him.

 _Wherever you are, Xander, I hope you have sense enough to keep your head down,_ he thought as he began to dial the number of his American friend.

If the young man brought anything more down on himself, it would be almost impossible to resolve matters to the satisfaction of all the Scoobies.

 _ **Undisclosed Location**_

"Could you repeat that for me, Agent Mason?" S-Man asked, sounding like his self-control was beginning to slip.

"T-the rogue asset told me to d-deliver a message," Agent Mason replied, looking VERY frightened. "' You can come after me all you want but you so much as set eyes on my friends back in Sunnydale and I…WILL…END…YOU. I will come down on your entire organization like a force of nature and dedicate my life to turning it into so much worthless ash. You won't know when and you won't know how but it WILL happen and there won't be a damn thing you can do about it!'. Then he left."

"After which you managed to escape capture by the authorities and make your way back to the Nevada facility and filed your report. Is that correct?" S-Man asked as his control slipped even more.

"Yes, sir," Agent Mason replied, a terrified tic beginning to manifest on his face.

"Did it ever occur to you that we might want to know WHERE the rogue asset was going or WHAT he was up to?" S-Man asked as he progressed from mildly annoyed to sub-yelling angry.

"There were police and reporters everywhere sir. I… I thought that The Four would prefer that I ensured the exposure became no worse than it was." Agent Mason replied, obviously knowing how much trouble he was currently in.

Before S-Man could explode and either say or do something ill-advised, another of The Four stepped in.

"While your intentions were commendable, Agent Mason, I'm sure you're aware we have a division specially trained for 'damage control'," W-Woman stated in a perfectly calm tone of voice. "It is the Tactical division's job to undertake whatever missions exist where combat is likely and achieve them using the skills they gained during their tenure with their nation's military. You were each selected because you were skilled and because you have the necessary moral flexibility to accomplish your assigned tasks without any unnecessary questions or discontent. Are you saying that you are not skilled enough to continue pursuit of a target even amidst heightened police and media presence?"

To this Agent Mason had no answer, most likely because he knew that it was a no win scenario.

If he claimed that he did have the skills to do what W-Woman said but didn't it would mean that he'd valued his own life more than the mission.

If he claimed that he did not have the skills, then his value as a tactical operative of the organization would go down significantly perhaps to the point of 'terminating' his contract.

"Very well," S-Woman said, feeling that no more needed to be said on the matter. "The personnel department will handle the matter of your employment from here on."

With that the video conference ended and the organization's symbol appeared on the screen.

"The man should be turned over to Mister Fring with special orders to make it last before displaying the man's corpse in the Nevada facility cafeteria!" S-Man yelled, finally letting out all the anger he'd kept to himself.

"While I will admit to being displeased about how his mission turned out, I believe such a punishment would be a bit harsh as well as ultimately pointless from a practical standpoint," E-Lady said once all were certain that S-Man had finished his tirade. "The criteria that the tactical teams were required to abide by limited their options and, when added to Agent Grimm's already impressive abilities, failure to capture was a respectable possibility. When added to the involvement of an unanticipated third party… they say that no plan ever survives first contact with ones' adversary."

"True. Nevertheless, we are presented with an escalating problem," W-Woman said before putting on a Nevada news station on the large monitor. "The world has seen our weapon and, while they might not be aware of the particulars, that will change the more this situation draws itself out. Despite the 'resources' we have in both the media as well as all branches of law enforcement, there still exists the possibility of a sliver of the truth getting out. That is something we can ill afford if we intend to get our desired use out of Agent Grimm."

"Indeed. While the vapid public might ignore the bit of truth that escapes our nets, the more intelligent information brokers will see it for what it is. After that it is only a matter of time before our adversaries decide to take precautions," N-Man said, sounding as though he would appreciate a solution to their current conundrum.

"Then it is clear that Agent Grimm needs to be captured and returned to us with all due speed," S-Man growled, still unhappy but not quite as explosive as before.

"Yes, however it is clear that our tactical teams are not up to the job and using one of our undercover assets might only add fuel to the fire," W-Woman said, pressing her fingers together in front of her face. "Perhaps outsourcing would be the correct course of action."

"What do you mean?" E-Lady asked with curiosity.

"As I recall we recently managed to uncover some rather interesting tidbits about a certain CIA section chief. Some very DAMAGING tidbits as I recall," W-Woman said with a small grin. "Said section chief is connected to a certain top secret black ops project involving the modifying of certain elite soldiers into 'assets'. While not quite at the same level as an Agent, some of them have respectable track records."

"So we use the information we've acquired to persuade this section chief to deploy his assets with the goal of capturing Agent Grimm. If they succeed, we get our asset back and the threat to our plans is ended," N-Man said, laying out the particulars to all. "If they fail then any investigation will lead the authorities to his doorstep with no ties to us except the words from his mouth. Considering his lawful occupation and the necessary aptitude for lying impeccably, I doubt anyone will take him seriously."

"Any communications between us and this section chief would have to be either via encrypted channels or intermediaries. Expendable intermediaries," S-Man said with no room for negotiation. "We use our backdoors into their systems to monitor the situation on that end while utilizing other means to monitor whoever is heading up the investigation into the Las Vegas incident. Agreed?"

Everyone at the table nodded their head in agreement.

"Perhaps it would also be prudent to come up with a Plan B," E-Lady said with mild concern. "If this entire incident has proven anything it's that the unforeseen can creep up on you and pounce without warning. We need to be prepared to launch an immediate follow up operation the moment we receive word that the CIA assets have failed."

"What do you suggest?" N-Man asked, looking like he'd hear her out.

"Why calling on the aid of an 'old friend', of course," E-Lady replied as a malicious grin appeared on her face.

 _ **Los Angeles, California**_

 _ **24 Hours Later**_

 _ **Xander's POV**_

 _Looks like I lost'em,_ he thought as he stepped off the bus he'd snuck on just as the police had been coming into the station. _Question is, now what?_

By now his face, fingerprints and possibly his blood were in the hands of whatever law enforcement team had been assigned the case. While they would likely focus their search within the state of Nevada to begin with, all it'd take would be one traffic camera or one police officer getting a good look at him to get the word spread. From there he'd likely need to be out of the city within five hours in order to avoid getting entangled in any police capture net.

Then there was the matter of money.

While he had brought a sizeable amount with him, it'd been with the understanding that he'd be able to withdraw more from his bank account. That was no longer a possibility because not only would the account be frozen by now, the second he tried to take out more money every cop car in the area would zero in on his location.

That meant he had a little over six hundred dollars to his name at the moment and it'd only go down from now on.

It wouldn't last him more than two weeks and that was if he was willing to be ridiculously stingy with it.

 _I need to figure out how to fatten my wallet,_ he thought as he began walking down the street head down as well as away from the light. _Too bad most law friendly places insist on background checks. Guess I'm going to have to start looking for work with the law unfriendly places._

He wasn't about to turn hitman for hire or bank robber; both jobs he could probably do if he didn't want to remain under the radar, but what else was there? What was morally defensible enough that he wouldn't lose any sleep over it but paid well and wouldn't attract the kind of attention he'd prefer to avoid? Underground cage fights? Places like that weren't exactly eager to draw attention to themselves and, as long as he was willing to put on a show for the audience, they'd be willing to pay him a respectable amount. Maybe just being a simple courier for whatever needed to go from point A to point B. Sure, it'd be a little risky depending on who he worked for and if they had enough shit together not to have tipped off the local P.D., but it'd help him stay under the radar.

Hearing his stomach growl he realized that it'd been a while since he last ate so he looked around for someplace that he could use to fill his belly and maybe get a line on some under the table work. It took a few minutes but he eventually spotted 'Sánchez's Bar & Grill' and it had an exterior that made it look pretty successful as opposed to months away from bankruptcy. An acceptable food source located and a stomach that wasn't willing to wait made the decision for him. With a casual trot he moved towards his destination while keeping both an eye and an ear for police presence of any kind.

Now had this been back in Sunnydale, trying to blend in while keeping an eye out for cops would've just made him stand out like a sore thumb. At the moment, though, he found himself falling into a groove that was just the right combination of casual and observant so smoothly you'd think that he'd been doing it all his life.

Yet another thing to ask about if he ever found out why he knew what he knew and could do what he could do.

Once inside the bar he could tell that whoever the owner was they had taste when it came to décor and it was busy enough that he could tell it was popular with the locals. Still, it looked like he wouldn't have too long a wait time for either food or drink so he walked over to a booth that'd give him a good view of the front door. Thankfully it also looked like he was close to the back door of the place, so if he needed to he wouldn't have any trouble sneaking away should any police stop by for a snack.

A couple minutes later a pretty looking Latina waitress walked up to him with the polite smile that just about every waitress probably practiced in the mirror for work.

"What can I get ya?" the waitress asked neutrally.

"Howsabout a plate of arroz con gandules and a bottle of Pepsi?" he asked, having perused the menu while waiting for the waitress.

"Good choice. Boss lady makes the best in L.A.," the waitress said as she jotted down the order. "Anything else?"

"Nope. That'll do it. Thanks," he replied, figuring the meal would be enough to keep him until tomorrow.

"'Kay. Be back with it in ten," the waitress said before walking off.

Looking about the place, he only meant to take in the atmosphere but instead he began to notice that every time his eyes fell on a person there was a bit of murmuring going on in the back of his mind that he couldn't quite hear. Concerned about what this could mean he focused inwards, advanced on the murmuring, and, when it became understandable, he realized it was a rundown on every person centered in his field of vision and he found it cool but bizarre at the same time.

And in the case of some bar customers, a serious case of T.M.I.

Shaking his head to shake the details out of the spotlight of his brain, he decided that unless the situation dictated it he'd ignore the murmuring entirely.

Food arrived shortly thereafter and, while he couldn't say that it'd be his favorite, it filled the empty place in his stomach so it was good enough. He was about halfway through when the door to the place opened and five men entered, led by a Korean man obviously dressed to look the part of the alpha dog of his pack. Judging from the way some of the other customers were reacting, the guy was trouble and not very welcome, though whether he'd be asked to leave was anyone's guess. If the request was made, though, he didn't think that the badass was going to just give up and leave quietly. No, he'd probably do something to make it clear that he was leaving because he chose to not because he'd been told to. Might even do something that would be both cruel and amusing since that was the sort of things that bullies often did to save face with their groupies.

"Well this place looks hopping!" the alpha dog said with mock satisfaction.

"Yeah it is, Johnny," a ladies voice said from the entrance to the kitchen.

Turning his head, he found the source to be a woman in her late thirties with tan skin and dark hair with a cook's apron tied around her waist.

"Now if you and your boys are here for a drink or something to eat, then find a table and a waitress'll be by in a minute," the lady chef said in a serious but polite tone. "If you're here to cause trouble then I suggest you turn around and find someplace else to eat."

"No trouble, Missus Sánchez. Just interested in good food and good drink," Johnny said with what likely was supposed to be a friendly smile.

He doubted very much that ANYONE with two brain cells to put together trusted those words or that smile. It was the same sort of smile he'd seen bullies plaster of their face after saying that 'they were just having a little talk with a friend' when they'd been putting a beating on someone. He had to roll his eyes a bit since it was in keeping with the luck he tended to have but he hoped that he'd be done his meal and gone before 'Johnny' decided to make a scene. If he stuck around and did nothing, he'd feel like crap because it wasn't in his nature to do nothing when assholes like Johnny did their thing. If he did intervene, he'd have to take on both the leader as well as his muscle and that'd probably lead to a mess as bad as anything the Korean-looking guy had originally planned. Sure, he could try to convince the guy to take it outside but that'd make it easier for his buddies to dive in to rescue their boss or just dog pile him if Johnny got pissed and ordered them to do it.

So, yeah, his vote was for finishing his meal and leaving before things got dicey.

Eating his food at a speed where he could actually savor every mouthful, he almost made it to the end but the crash of dinner plates shattering along with a few glasses ruined his remaining appetite.

"How can you stay in business serving slop like this!?" Johnny exclaimed, sounding all outraged and disgusted.

"You don't want to eat it you don't have to, but the second you swallowed your first mouthful you owed me money for it. For ALL of it," Missus Sanchez said in a tone that most kids knew better than to defy. "Including the dishes and glasses you just broke."

"Like hell I'm paying for these plates of shit!" Johnny said angrily, defiantly. "As for dishes I bet you buy them in bulk. I doubt they cost more than a quarter each!"

"You don't pay not only are you banned from here until you do but I'm calling the police," Missus Sanchez said, not backing down one little bit, "Do you really want to explain that to your father?"

"Like he would believe some ship-wrecked Mexican!" Johnny said in retaliation.

He knew right then and there that that last bit was a nasty slur, especially since Missus Sanchez went from hostile polite to a hostile angry expression.

If there was one thing that got his goat every single time it was a guy with a potty mouth taking it to a woman. Not that he was sexist or anything but to him it just wasn't right to cross that particular line with a lady. Sure, he and Cordy went at it in between classes but they both knew that there were certain words, certain phrases, which were completely off limits when it came to their verbal sparring matches. Nothing racial, nothing that would exceed a PG-13 rating, and they never went to places they knew were personal to the other person. Cordy never went after Tony and Jessica and he never brought up the future as a trophy wife her parents probably wanted for her.

He didn't show the same courtesy to the rest of the Cordettes because, frankly, they were sheep and Harmony was worse. While he wouldn't badmouth the groupies in Cordy's presence past PG-13 level, if any of the hanger ons came at him when she wasn't around, he gave as good as he received. Twice as much for Harmony but that was only because the bubble brain would likely forget the entire conversation within forty eight hours.

So hearing this guy toss those kinds of words at a woman, in her own business, if he was right, he could not be expected to keep his mouth shut.

"He might not believe it but I'm betting that some of his friends might give it a couple minutes thought," he said just loud enough for Johnny to hear him.

"What did you say, cracker?" Johnny asked after he got over the momentary shock.

"Well, we all know tattling on you to your dad would be bad, but if all his friends heard about this, it wouldn't just be you that got hurt, it'd be him too," he said as he casually got out of his seat. "So even if he didn't believe her, the damage control he'd have to do with his friends would lead to taking out some of his anger on you sooner or later."

He could tell his words were raising Johnny's blood pressure as the look of deep hatred was beginning to solidify on his face but hopefully it wouldn't cause things to escalate too much.

"Now if you pay up, plus fifteen percent, and leave, never to show your face here ever again," he said, laying out what he thought was a reasonable compromise for all concerned, "I'm sure everyone here could suffer a case of amnesia."

There were whispers of agreement and looks to match, so in his mind the rational course of action would be for Johnny to take the deal.

Sadly angry people were often anything but rational.

Stepping up and looking him right in the eye, Johnny was obviously trying to intimidate him into being the first to back down, thus cementing his position of superiority.

Too bad during his time as a Scooby he'd faced things that made one self-important gang leader seem about as threatening as a five year old.

"Well, if I'm going to pay anything…" Johnny said threateningly, without breaking eye contact, "…I might as well get my money's worth!"

Out of nowhere a right hook slammed into his jaw, rocking him back a bit but it was more due to surprise than the actual force behind it. He'd taken harder hits from vampires and stayed both conscious as well as in the fight, so Johnny's right fist was nothing really to write home about. Could he have dodged the punch or blocked it? Yeah. However doing it this way would have a better side effect, so he'd taken the hit.

Now it was time to deliver the punchline.

"Really? Is that all you got?" he asked as he straightened up and looked Johnny right in the eye. "I was expecting something… better."

This only seemed to anger the man more so he decided to nip the problem in the bud and hope things didn't end in a free for all.

"My turn," he said as he prepared to show the bully some of his moves.

With all the speed he could muster he expertly landed a right hook to the jaw, a left to the temple on the right side of the man's head followed by a rising knee to the chin. This was all done so quickly that the head didn't have enough time to move out of position, thus ruining his combo, so instead of one move to KO the guy he managed to pull off three. As a result Johnny fell backwards to the floor and did not get back up. He hadn't heard any bone cracking so he was fairly certain there wouldn't be anything worse than bruising for the guy to work off when he woke up.

Looking at the guy's friends, he glared at him with the coldest eyes he could.

"Anyone wanting to avenge their boss' honor, step up," he said sounding like he was all the more ready to add more bodies to the one on the floor.

None of the other four seemed eager to throw down with him.

"No? Then pick up your boss and get lost," he said before a thought occurred to him. "But first empty your pockets of cash on the table. His too. If you'd paid what you owed right off the bat it'd just've been the cost of the food and drinks. Now it costs more."

For a moment it looked like the thugs would argue the point but fortunately Missus Sanchez was willing to back his play and so were a few of the bar patrons, the former bringing out a baseball bat and the latter standing up out of their seats with menacing looks on their faces. THAT proved to be enough intimidate the thugs into doing as he asked and, once they were done, they carried their boss out of the bar.

With that done he went back to his seat, sat down and resumed eating his meal.

"That was the single most idiotic, macho and reckless thing I have seen in a long time," Missus Sanchez said and she sounded like she'd seen plenty of examples in her time and was a little tired of it. "You do it often?"

"More than I probably should but I'm still here, so I must be doing something right," he replied.

"That or God pities fools and is protecting you," Missus Sanchez said with a rueful shake of her head. "Still… thanks."

"Not a problem, Missus S.," he said, not really thinking what he did was all that special.

"For what you've done, call me Christina." Missus Christina Sanchez said with a smile of her own.

With that he was left to finish his meal but this time his wariness about getting spotted was replaced with the warm feeling he always got when he'd done some good.

He knew it wouldn't last but that just made him want to savor it all the more.

 _ **Langley, Virginia**_

 _ **Public Park**_

 _ **The Next Day, Afternoon**_

 _ **Ward Abbott's POV**_

"Mister Abbott?" a woman's voice asked to his right, causing him to look that way.

"Yes?" he replied, hoping to get more information before leaning one way or another.

"My name is Jane Smith. I am here representing the anonymous party who sent you the package asking you to be here today," Jane Smith said as she sat down next to him and casually took in the park before them.

"Your… employers… seem to be very well informed," he said, remembering the contents of the file that'd come along with the rest of the package.

"They have big dreams. Can't make them come true if their information is faulty," Smith said, finishing her perusal of the park. "As I'm sure someone in your line of work knows facts can often prove more effective then guns in the right situation."

"Quite." He knew all too well that the right information used in the correct manner could topple a government.

"At the same time we understand the need to keep certain information under lock and key. Sometimes it's better for everyone to be ignorant of certain truths," Jane Smith said, taking on a serious tone. "Have you seen the news lately? West coast news?"

Of course he had. Every intelligence and law enforcement agency in the world had probably gotten wind of what'd happened in Las Vegas by now. For the time being the interest level was low, water cooler talk, but that could change if the investigation into the altercation bore fruit. Judging from the data the woman's employers had access to and the 'request' for this meeting, his instincts were telling him that there was more to the this matter than could be seen.

"Yes. A bit out of the ordinary even for that city," he said, not giving away more than he had to.

"One of the… participants… of the battle is of interest to my employers. The incident in Las Vegas was our initial attempt to acquire him," Jane Smith said, taking a picture out of her coat pocket and handing it to him. "However he proved more formidable than our men had anticipated, so we've decided to outsource to more capable agents. Yours. To be more precise, your 'special' agents. The ones that you told your Senate Oversight Committee didn't exist beyond an 'advanced game program' or 'theoretical exercise'."

Treadstone.

He thought he'd managed to tie off that particular fiasco with Conklin but apparently there'd been a few more loose lips involved in the Operation than he'd originally thought. He'd have to make some inquiries, look at a few files, to see if there were any more loose ends involved that he'd forgotten to tie off.

"Their objective will be to track, locate and acquire the target. Alive," Jane Smith said before glancing casually about to see if they had any eavesdroppers. "Some damage is permissible but nothing irreparable. Do this and we'll not only provide the names of the people who provided us with the information that brought you here but the hard copy of the information to do with whatever you will."

"And the digital copy?" he asked, knowing that there had to be one.

"Deleted beyond hope of recovery," Jane Smith replied with an expression that could not be read.

It was the usual sort of deal that people in his line of work handed out every other week to people who needed to be shown 'the error of their ways'. On the surface it was easy enough but he knew better than to accept the deal right there. It was never wise to get into an arrangement with someone you knew nothing about. Only when you had enough intel on them that you could discourage a double cross situation or encourage a more favorable 'payday' did you agree.

"Give me some time to think-" he began to say, hoping to buy enough time to gather some counter intelligence but she cut him off.

"You step away from this bench, you step away from the deal and the information falls into the hands of every person who wants you dead or out of their way," Jane Smith declared in a tone that stopped him cold. "Understand, Mister Abbott, we're approaching you this way as a courtesy. However courtesy only extends so far. Do not think that you are the only person with assets we can employ to achieve the objective. You're simply first on our list. Nothing more."

Who were her employers?

You could tell a lot about the organization a person worked for by how they behaved on their behalf. In this case the impression he got was that they either were or believed themselves to powerful enough to dictate terms to someone like him without hesitation. To get the information they had on him, they also had to have skilled operatives capable of infiltrating the C.I.A. and getting out with information without raising any red flags. The fact that they hadn't submitted official paperwork to requisition some 'assets' for the job mean that either they didn't want a paper trail for the operation or they weren't American on any level. More and more he tried to do some on the spot sleuthing to figure out just what he was dealing with but all he had were theories, not hard evidence.

There was only one move he could make.

"Very well. How many 'assets' do you need?" he asked as he began to call up from memory of who was left from Treadstone and who was available from the other Beta programs.

While he only had direct authority to deploy Treadstone and Blackbriar assets, if only by association with the second, he could also call in some favors for a few Outcome and LARX assets as well.

"Whatever you have on the west coast or can get there inside of the next twelve hours," Jane Smith replied without hesitation or sign of humor.

THAT… would be a hefty amount of assets. At least six assets if he remembered the reports he'd read recently. Explaining the assignment of so many assets to the west coast would be difficult to do, especially if he couldn't come up with a reason why that would satisfy those who'd inquire. Granted, it wouldn't be the first time he'd fabricated evidence to justify deployment of an asset but what could he possibly write up to make the deployment of six condonable? He'd seen the news footage of the construction site battle and, while that would be enough to send two or three, it would not be enough to justify six.

"The best I'll be able to do without arousing suspicion would be three. Any more and I'd need to present compelling evidence that more are needed," he said, doing his best to make it sound like it'd be impossible to do without outside intervention.

"No you won't, Mister Abbott," Jane Smith said as she stood up. "You're not the only person my employers have information on. Get the assets that fit the criteria I specified and get them on the job. An intel packet on the target will be sent to the email address on the back of the photograph. The username and password are included. We'll be watching."

With that the brunette woman walked away from him, leaving him to look at the face of a young man in his late teens and wonder what he had just stepped into. As a member of one of the best information gathering agencies on the planet, he was not used to being completely clueless about someone or something capable of affecting his goals or his life in general. In the past he always heard a whisper, got slipped a note, about something that was gaining strength or straying towards his proverbial sandbox.

Now he'd just been dominated by the mouthpiece of an unknown group and forced to deploy 'do not exist' assets to the west coast.

 _I'll wait until I'm sure that they're not looking my way then I start digging,_ he thought, determined to get some information on his new 'partners' to improve his bargaining position.

Depending on how far above him this organization turned out to be, he might just be able to bargain himself into a more favorable position.

 _ **Santorini, Greece**_

 _ **Ethan Hunt's POV**_

"Paging Mister Hunt. Paging Mister Ethan Hunt," came a voice over the hotel's P.A. system. "Please report to the front desk immediately."

 _They couldn't even give us six months,_ he thought as old instincts told him what this was likely about.

"I'll be right back," he said to his wife Julia as he got up from his seat in the hotel's wonderful restaurant.

"Can't you just ignore them?" Julia asked, sounding like that would be precisely what she'd prefer he do.

"If I ignore them now they'll make sure that I can't ignore them later," he said, knowing that Brassel would be a lot less subtle about wanting to talk to him if he ignored this summons.

It was one of the things he'd learned fairly quickly once he'd joined the IMF. Once they called they never stopped until you answered and the more you pushed back, the worse it'd be for you.

They wouldn't go so far as to break the secrecy of the organization but the worst he'd ever seen it was men in suits showing up in great enough numbers that they could force you into a vehicle. Seeing as how he didn't want to expose his wife to any more of his job than he had to, it'd be better to take the call and politely turn down the mission they had for him than have them push the issue.

Trotting along, it didn't take him long to reach the front desk.

"I'm Ethan Hunt," he said to the desk lady.

"A package arrived just a few moments ago by courier," the lady said, taking out a small briefcase-shaped box from behind the counter before handing it to him. "The courier insisted that we give it to you as soon as possible."

"Thank you," he said, recognizing the dimensions of a secure IMF message case. "Is there someplace that I can open this in private?"

"Certainly. Follow me," the desk lady said with a gesture.

Falling into step behind her, it didn't take long to reach what looked to be an employee lounge area that, thankfully, had no one else in it at the moment.

"Shouldn't take much more than a few minutes," he said with a friendly smile.

"Certainly," the desk lady said before leaving the room.

With one final look at the room, he walked to the door and turned the lock to make sure no one would come in unexpectedly. Moving over to the table where the package rested he tore off the wrapping paper, revealing the black surface beneath, completely smooth aside from a single silver oval in the center roughly the same size as a thumbprint. Pressing his right thumb to the oval, he watched as the sensors inside passed back and forth, scanning it before the whole shape turned green, signifying that it matched what was on file. A moment later locks clicked and an internal motor opened up the case to reveal a set of files on the bottom half and a video screen built into the top half. Once everything finished opening the screen clicked on, showing a grey background with the I.M.F. symbol in the middle.

"Good morning, Mister Hunt. We're sorry to interrupt your honeymoon but a matter has arisen that requires your specific intervention," the briefer said before a recording of a news broadcast appeared. "Two days ago in Las Vegas, Nevada, an altercation occurred involving a group of armed men, a single highly trained young man and members of two local biker gangs. It is not clear at this time what caused the fight. However it is clear that there is more to this skirmish than meets the eye.

"Using visual segmentation, enhancement and analysis programs, we attempted to identify all of the people involved. While most of them were civilians we found something interesting with the group of armed civilians," the briefer said as a set of four photographs of men appeared on screen. "Each of these men have been identified as military personnel from a variety of different countries. The only thing they have in common is each country has them listed as deceased in their personnel files."

 _That sounds an awful lot like The Syndicate,_ he thought as he remembered a rumor that'd been bandied about the IMF water cooler.

There'd always been stories about a secret organization working in the background and it only got more popular to talk about whenever a major crime happened that couldn't be explained. In most cases, the various world agencies simply pinned the blame on whoever the most likely suspect was or put it on the 'unsolved' shelf. Personally, while he didn't have any evidence to support his position, he believed that there was some single body out there behind each event that remained unexplained. The resources, the manpower and the coordination were simply too great to be the work of small individual groups. He knew that, without the resources made available to him as a member of the I.M.F., he wouldn't have been as successful on missions.

The problem was that he couldn't find the pieces of information that'd allow him to connect the dots and see the entire picture.

"We've contacted our allies to begin looking into the 'deaths' of their operatives but so far nothing of consequence has been discovered," the briefer said before the four pictures were replaced by a single one. "We believe, however, that this young man, one Alexander LaVelle Harris, is the key to understanding everything. CCTV camera footage, along with what was taken by the news helicopter, indicates that the 'deceased personnel' were attempting to capture him. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to travel to the last confirmed location of Alexander Harris and track him down. Once you've made contact with him you are authorized to do whatever you can to gain his trust."

 _A pretty blank check they're giving me,_ he thought, remembering the past times he'd been given permission to bribe people in order to accomplish a mission. _They must want this Harris kid on their side pretty badly._

"You may select any three IMF agents of your choice in order to complete this mission," the briefer continued before returning to the image of the IMF symbol on a grey background. "As always, should you or any of your IMF team be captured or killed, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This message will self-destruct in five seconds. Good luck, Agent Hunt."

Taking out the files, he dumped the case into the nearest trashcan and walked over to the door, unlocked it, and then left without a single look back. He knew that the self-destruct mechanism within the case would release a corrosive compound that would melt all the internal workings. The compound wouldn't be able to eat through the outer casing itself and, after a time, would turn to vapor, leaving nothing but a metal box for any curious passerby to find. In all the years since he'd become a part of the IMF he'd never once seen it fail, so he didn't think it necessary to visually confirm that all sensitive information had been destroyed.

Now, however, he had to figure out how he was going to break to his wife that he was going to put their honeymoon on hold for a few weeks while he tracked down Harris. Personally he didn't see the hunt taking much longer than that to find the young man because, no matter how impressive the kid might've looked in the footage, there was no way someone that young would get away from him. Even if the kid had been trained from when he was five years old, you needed real world experience to compete with the top agents of the world. The fact that Alexander had gotten himself caught on camera proved he could make mistakes and he had something of a knack for capitalizing on an enemy's mistakes.

He knew that, even if he promised to be back within a week, Julia would still not be pleased, but would try to be understanding so long as he made up for it when he got back.

Already evaluating his bank account, the current season and the possible honeymoon hotspots that his wife might like flowed about his head. However, when he returned to the restaurant and his eyes met Julia's, he knew she could tell which way the wind was blowing and did not like it.

"Don't worry. This won't take more than a week. Two, tops," he said once he was close enough to speak without being overheard by anyone nearby. "They just need my help tracking down a person of interest who's gone off the grid. Compared to some of the other missions I've been on, this'll be a piece of cake."

Julia's expression made it clear that she appreciated his efforts to minimize the impact his departure would have on their honeymoon but still didn't like it being interrupted.

"And when I get back we'll do whatever you like. Money will be no object. The sky's the limit," he said before putting on a mock concerned look on his face. "Or at least up to what I've got in my savings account."

She chuckled at this and he could see the last of the displeasure connected to his departure dispersing, though he figured it could make a quick comeback if the mission went longer than he thought it would.

In any case, they did their best to enjoy their meal before heading back to their room so he could pack for his trip back to the States.

 _Here's hoping that Luther's not on another assignment,_ he thought as he went through the agents he knew and could be useful. _Zhen was still free last I checked, so she'd be good._ _I'll probably have to check the standby list to fill the final slot._

When it came to a mission you needed the right combination of skills and experience to accomplish your objective, so putting someone in the final slot just to fill it was sloppy. An ill chosen agent could destabilize the entire operation and, for the IMF, an unstable mission could lead to an unacceptably high body count.

He'd seen the aftermath of missions like those and he refused for one of his to end up like that.

 _ **Los Angeles, California**_

 _ **Xander's POV**_

"Here, try this," he said before a slid a plate over to his boss.

The twenty-three year old woman and fellow employee picked up the sandwich he'd prepared and took a bite of it before making a show of mulling the taste over. He chuckled a bit at that because they both knew that 'the usual' that the grocery store / café put out was universally reviled even by good friends. Whether it was because the woman didn't know how to make a proper tuna fish sandwich or the ingredients she could afford were of the lowest quality, he didn't know. Fortunately for her he had some experience on making edible food on the bare minimum budget.

Or at least he thought he did.

He was still meditating during his off hours, trying to make sense of the frat house of a mess his mind had become ever since he'd been attacked in Oxnard but it was slow going. While he was reasonably sure he really had learned how to make the most of a limited kitchen budget, he couldn't be one hundred percent sure. A large part of him wanted to just stop worrying about what he could do and what he remembered, to just go with the flow and live his life the best he could. The problem was the rest of him was loud enough and logical enough that he couldn't do what the larger part wanted.

If there was one thing that living in Sunnydale had taught him it was that what you don't know can come back to bite you in the ass in painful, fatal ways.

Watching as Mia finally had enough of her act and swallowed, he took the pleased look on her face as a sign that his creation was a hit.

"This is really good," Mia said with a bit of enthusiasm. "I'd have called you a liar if I hadn't seen for myself that you could make something this good with so little."

"Well, my folks weren't exactly rolling in dough so I had to make do with what we had," he said, not willing to go into details he wasn't even sure were real. "I got a couple of other ideas that don't cost much more than this to make and they're just as simple to put together. Interested?"

"Definitely! If I can get the hang of them we can finally ditch the tuna sandwiches and maybe draw some of the lunch crowd back," Mia said, sounding like she really wanted the grocery store café that bore her family name to experience an upswing in business.

Considering that she'd put him up on a cot in the backroom and was paying him a decent wage to help out, he was all for helping her improve the body traffic. It'd been the morning after Johnny had come in with his gang that he'd been approached by Christina about what he was doing in town and what his plans were for the future. He'd kept things basic, saying that he was on a road trip and was in the short term looking to replenish his travel funds before moving on. It was close enough to the truth that the falsehoods wouldn't make it to the surface and it kept the truth from falling into innocent hands. He didn't know how far the group that was after him would go to keep their secrets but he was determined to give them as little reason to target Christina Sanchez or the people she knew as possible.

It wouldn't be foolproof protection but it was the best he could do short of looking into drugs that messed with memory and wiping down everything he'd touched since arriving in L.A.

When Christina had heard his answer, she'd mentioned that a friend of the family owned a café / grocery store and that he might be able to get a job there. The bar and grill owner didn't guarantee good pay but that it was something and the people that owned it wouldn't look too hard at his background unless he gave them a reason to. Not having any other ideas, he'd taken her up on the offer and hopped a bus to the address she'd given him. That'd been when he'd met Mia and they'd gone through the usual employment interview bit. She didn't ask him for I.D. or for references but rather asked him questions that'd tell her about his personality as well as what sort of skills he had. It was a bit odd since he'd figured, in a big city like Los Angeles, where crime was something of an issue, that a background check was customary. Either Mia was a trusting individual or had backup that she thought would be up to the task of curb stomping him if he proved to be a threat. By the time the interview was over he had the job and she then showed him the cot he'd be sleeping on in the back for the duration of his employment. It wasn't much but, after testing it a bit, he'd found it acceptable. It hadn't smelled unbearably bad and the springs had been in good enough condition that he hadn't had any trouble sleeping on it.

Now, with his first introduction to the business' menu, he felt like the job had truly become his.

Hearing the sound of car engines getting closer he looked over Mia's shoulder to see five styling cars pull into the parking spots in front of the café. Honestly some of them were brighter than some of his Hawaiian shirts while others had some art drawn on them that obviously hinted at the personality of the driver. A red 1993 Mazda RX-7 FD, a 1995 Volkswagen Jetta, a 1995 Nissan Skyline GT-R R33, a 1997 Nissan 240SX and a 1999 Nissan Maxima (A32). It wasn't that the cars were super expensive or looked like they belonged in some movie star's private garage but you could just tell that these cars could fly when they wanted to.

One by one the driver's got out and with only a few seconds of looking he could tell who the alpha dog was of the bunch and, unless he was mistaken, the sole woman in the group was definitely the second in command. As the group entered the café proper he could tell that they'd spotted him and, judging from the looks on their faces, their guards were about halfway up. Probably the only reason that they weren't all the way up was because of Mia either because they knew she was the owner or were friends with her. Keeping his face polite, he started cleaning up the scraps and bits of food that were left over from making his newest creation, letting them make the first move.

Mia turned away from the sandwich he'd made for her and, when she spotted the group, her eyes widened, confirming that the two sides knew each other in a more than passing manner. The smile that came next implied much joy but it was when Mia hugged the alpha of the group without a single raised hackle on the part of the lone female of the arriving group that the pieces fell into place.

Mia and the alpha male were related somehow. Brother and sister? Cousins? No way of knowing but, judging from the similar facial features, he'd put money on the former.

"Dom! I thought you were taking today off," Mia said once she released the hug.

"I was but then I spotted a bill that hadn't gotten paid for the place so I decided to spin by to see what was going on," Dom, probably short for Dominic, said with an inquisitive look.

"It's nothing. With what the café'll make this week I can get it paid off no problem," Mia said, not sounding worried in the least about the money owed.

"Oh? The tuna fish sandwiches suddenly get better?" Dom asked, sounding like he very much doubted that.

"Nope. Thanks to Xander we'll have fresh new sandwiches to offer and they're definitely better than the tuna fish," Mia said, turning to him briefly when she spoke his name.

The glowing endorsement Mia gave his creation seemed to lessen the wariness the group felt towards him but not more than a teaspoon amount. Obviously these guys were pretty tight and had likely had some bad experiences with outsiders in the past, even if those people just drifted past their inner circle rather than try to join it. In a way they were acting a lot like the Scoobies would each time someone new showed up at Sunnydale High or came into the library while they were researching.

"Here," he said, pushing the plate with the remaining half of the sandwich on it. "Taste for yourself."

If there was one thing that he heartily agreed with it was that a good way to improve a man's mood was to give him something good to eat. Depending on how pleasing it was, you could go from an outsider to the guy's best friend in the blink of an eye. At the moment he'd be happy if the 'potential threat' label was peeled off his forehead.

Without any hint about which way his opinion was going, Dom picked up the sandwich half and took a small bite out of it. He took the fact that the guy wasn't immediately spitting it out as a good sign but the man's face wasn't exactly lighting up like Mia's had. Bit by bit the sandwich disappeared but it was only after it was all gone that he got the first clue about what Dom thought about his creation.

The dangerous light of wariness faded completely from the man's eyes.

"Not bad. Definitely better than the tuna," Dom said, sliding the plate back to him.

"So how'd he get hired on?" asked a guy with scruffy hair and a beard.

"Letty's mom called saying Johnny'd come into her place looking to cause trouble. Almost did until Xander stepped up, telling him to leave." Mia's tone sounded like she approved.

"I can guess how that went," the guy with the toothpick in his mouth said with a grin.

"Not really. Xander managed to KO Johnny in three hits and brow beat his 'friends' into carrying his sorry ass out of there," Mia said with the smile of someone who had the true facts.

"That was YOU?!" Letty asked with no little bit of surprise.

"You hear about this, Letty?" the scruffy guy asked with curiosity.

"Just a little. Mom came home with a big ole grin on her face two nights ago and said something about one of Johnny's visits finally ending without a repair bill," Letty replied, getting a little grin of her own. "She was tired so I didn't press her for details but she did say she'd never seen a nicer three hit combo in her life."

He could tell that kicking Johnny's butt had won over a lot of the crew in front of him, making him think that the Korean guy wasn't well liked. It piqued his interest plus he'd like to know if he'd stepped in a pile of shit or not.

"Just who is this Johnny guy?" he asked casually but taking in everything for later.

"Johnny Tran. He runs a gang operating out of Little Saigon in Orange County," Dom replied, giving the words significant weight. "Word is he's linked to the Kkangpae but the details are a little fuzzy. He doesn't like us and we don't like him. So the fact that you managed to lay him out in front of everyone at Sanchez's… let's just say you're alright."

 _Great. Less than a week here and already I've pissed of a member of the Korean mafia,_ he thought without letting his eye rolling reach the surface. _Luck's running true to form._ "SO… what kind of blowback can I expect from my little one round match?" he asked, wanting to know if he should bug out or if he had some time.

"Oh, Johnny's not going to be happy but the Kkangpae aren't going to get involved over something like that. Too personal and no profit," Dom replied after taking a moment to think. "It's gonna be Johnny's mess to clean up. At most you'll have to worry about ten of his guys plus him cornering you looking for payback."

"Weapons?" he asked so he'd know how wide a net he'd need to cast to keep an eye out for threats.

"Sub-machine guns, blades and the usual kung fu movie crap," the Scruffy guy replied, sounding unconcerned.

Immediately the facts popped into his head as he dismissed any of the larger submachine guns since they'd be harder to conceal from the local P.D. if they came looking. In the end he settled on UZIs and that meant that the effective range would be two hundred feet, or maybe a little under a half city block. However he figured those stats were for someone with professional training rather than some street punk who bought them out of the trunk of some gun runner's car. So he figured it was safe enough to say as long as he was more than a hundred feet away from whoever was firing the UZI.

Didn't mean he wouldn't get hit if he stayed away but it would mean that it'd be more chance then design.

"I wouldn't worry too much about getting shot," Dom said, sounding completely unconcerned. "You made him look like a first class pussy. He's gonna want to get up close and kick that ass of yours personally."

So truthfully Johnny might try to injure him at first to stack the deck in his favor, THEN get in close to beat him to death with his bare hands.

After all, who ever heard of a bully playing fair?

"Any chance he'll try something here?" he asked, moving onto his next priority. "If my mess is gonna put Mia in danger then I'll find someplace else to sleep."

"Nah. Johnny knows better than to try something here," Dom said, shaking his head. "We might hate each other's guts but we've never hit someone where they live."

"It's when you're driving that you'll have to worry," Toothpick guy said, earning a little chuckle from the rest.

"Then I guess I'm safe," he said, recalling the fate of his car. "My car had a little accident outside of L.A. Wasn't salvageable so I hitchhiked the rest of the way."

"What happened?" Mia asked with a bit of interest.

"Bought it from my uncle at what I thought was a great price. Was going along route thirty-six and massaged my brakes as I approached a turn to get… nothing," he replied, keeping his face entirely believable. "I try a few more times just in case the first one was a fluke but it wasn't. So there I am going just a little over the speed limit with no breaks on a roller coaster route. Now while I had sunk a fair bit of coin into buying it, I wasn't about to risk my life riding things out to someplace safer so I grabbed my bag and bailed."

He didn't like having to lie to them but if he told them that he'd intentionally rigged his car to blow in order to knock some assholes off their guard, he'd get kicked out at light speed.

"Car went right off the side of the cliff, tumbled end over end, until something sparked off the gas in the tank." he said, hoping that they didn't get suspicious enough to dig into the matter.

He didn't know what sort of connections they had or if they had someone in a position to look into any accidents that'd happened in the last week. Considering the fact that this was Los Angeles, there were probably quite a few car accidents every week but probably only a handful involved cliff falls. If he saw a sign that they were catching onto the truth he'd vanish as quickly as possible.

Inquiries about him would only become smoke signals luring those looking for him to Los Angeles and bringing trouble no one wanted to Mia's doorstep. The only shot she'd have would be if his pursuers were convinced that his stay there had been so brief that none of the locals would know anything of consequence.

"Damn! Lady Luck must love you something awful," Scruffy guy said, sounding a bit impressed that he'd made it out alive.

 _Yeah, she loves me alright,_ he thought cynically as he recalled his past as a Scooby. _Loves to make me her personal plaything. Sometimes I think that the only reason I survive half the stuff I get into is because she doesn't want to lose her favorite toy._ "Not enough to keep my car in fixable shape," he said, thinking about how nice it'd be to have a vehicle of his own rather than have to rely on public transportation.

Sure, he could steal someone's ride if he had to but there were dangers to that he'd rather avoid.

"Tell you what. Since you helped Letty's mom and breathed some fresh blood into the café, I'll see if I can't get you a new ride," Dom said, sounding like he was being straight with him. "Can't promise anything special but it'll run and get you to the next stop."

There were varying degrees of surprise all about the room at this proclamation, including him since it was a little unheard of for someone to offer to get a stranger a car.

"You kicked Johnny's ass without demolishing Missus Sanchez's bar and you'll help up the revenue of the café while you're here," Dom explained, never once losing his sincerity. "I'd say that's worth a car. Especially at the rates we know of. Right, guys?"

This seemed to enlighten Dom's crew but also anger Mia a bit but he couldn't figure out the reason for either side's reaction.

Not quite.

"Sure. Might take some time to find just the right one but we'll manage," Letty said with a semi-playful grin.

Something told him he didn't want to know what she meant by that.

 _ **Goa, India**_

 _ **Janus' POV**_

 _Forces are amassing against my favorite toy,_ he thought as he strolled down the street. _The potential friends he has in Los Angeles might improve his odds a bit but not enough. Time to bring in a ringer._

It had been about a year and a half since Alexander LaVelle Harris, aka Agent Grimm, was brought to his attention thanks to Ethan Rayne's spell that Halloween. At first he'd been repulsed by the very existence of such an orderly being and was only more irritated by the fact that Alexander possessed two faces, if only in a psychological sense. It was if some god or goddess had purposefully arranged the entire thing just to mock him. Had it not been for a few cunning words by an 'old friend', he would've done the members of the collective body known as The Powers That Be a favor and arranged a wave of bad luck for the lad. Instead he'd seen the long game and agreed with his friend that it would be to their benefit to let Harris live.

All that had been needed to get the ball rolling was a little dressing up, a talisman that'd been collecting dust and some of the best acting a being like him was capable of.

Now, though, Alexander needed some time to finish getting used to the new him and that wouldn't happen if he got distracted fighting off agents sent by his former masters.

In the interests of buying time he had come to Goa in order to enlist the help of one who had both skill and experience when it came to thwarting the efforts of those who sought to control. Better yet, he already had with him the 'payment' that would secure the man's aid without question. The only potential hiccup would be if The Powers That Be found out his intentions and moved to intervene. They were rather obsessive about their plans and, while they respected HER decree involving free will, that didn't mean that they wouldn't use every resource at their disposal to stack the odds in their favor. He had little doubt that they had plans for the man he was there to see and wouldn't take kindly to them mucking up. He had done his best to blend in with the locals and conceal his true nature but the moment he opened his mouth to create deviations from the current flow of things, they'd know something was up.

He only hoped that their superiority complex would buy him enough time to make the damage irreparable.

Turning the corner, he spotted the scooter shop that the lover of the man he'd come to see ran and, with a brief tapping of his powers, he confirmed that his potential ally was in there as well. With a small grin he walked towards the building while keeping an eye open for signs of trouble. While he was primarily a god of transition, many saw him as a deity of chaos, but in either case it meant he was quite good at reading the little hints reality provided when either domain was brought to bear. If his presence had been detected then a representative of The Powers That Be would teleport into Goa close to his location to investigate.

Fortunately most of the ones he was aware of had never met him face to face, so it'd take them a minute to tap into the powers granted to them in order to determine his location and confirm his identity. If he managed to identify them first he would hopefully be able to either subdue them before he was made or vanish into a crowd just like his recruit could.

When he entered the building and laid eyes on his target without anything happened, he was tempted to believe that he'd managed to slip the notice of those obsessed with control. However he knew that there were forces, not sentient or easily perceived, that waited for people to do precisely that before turning everything on its head, so he kept his guard up even as he located the one he sought he kept his senses tuned for anything worrisome.

"Welcome to 'Marvelous Mopeds'! How can I help you?" Marie Kreutz asked with the line expected of a business owner.

"Actually, Miss Kreutz, I believe we can help each other," he replied, noting how instantly the duo went on alert.

He could almost see Jason scouting the entrances, the exits and the windows for any sign of an armed presence while likely reaching for a concealed weapon of some kind. While he condemned the methods used to create Jason Bourne, he could not say that the end result was not impressive.

"Who are you?" Jason asked, voice laced with suspicion.

"My name probably won't mean much to you but it is Janus," he replied, figuring there wouldn't be much call for a magical education in the spy world. "As for your next question 'why am I here', the answer is that I require your aid. A… friend is in danger."

"What kind of danger?" Marie asked, sounding worried but not specific about what.

"The kind that is both similar and different to what Mister Bourne will likely live under for the rest of his days," he replied, taking on a more serious tone. "You are not the first attempt to create the perfect operative. Ever since World War Two the governments of the world have been experimenting to see if science could produce a soldier capable of going beyond established human norms. One of the first was the Agent Program but that has been put on hold due to the absence of several of its key scientists. The program Jason was once a part of, Treadstone, was an attempt to use drugs and extreme mental conditioning to create the perfect operative who'd always obey orders without hesitation or question. In the case of Project Golem, though, they went one step further."

He could tell that he had the attention of both Miss Kreutz and Mister Bourne so he moved on to the main course.

"They took genetic material of two promising individuals and used it to create a child who genetically was comprised of the best of both contributors. After that they conscripted the best in the necessary fields and drew blood from each of them before instituting a process to graft the desired traits onto the child," he said, remembering what he'd seen from above. "However while his performance during training when it began was exemplary, it was not enough to satisfy those who funded his creation. Not nearly enough."

Neither Marie or Jason looked pleased by what they were being told but they didn't offer any comments good or bad, so he continued.

"They wanted an operative that could fit in seamlessly with the civilian population but be ready to fulfill their duties as an operative in a second. To answer this demand the scientist in charge chose to artificially induce a split of personality. One would be a civilian while the other would be a merciless machine ready to take orders and fulfill them. From there he was relocated to a small town with a big appetite for the unwary, awaiting the day when he would be ready to do what you, Mister Bourne, once did."

He could tell that what he was telling them was upsetting but, if he was going to earn their trust and convince them to help him, he needed them to be in their right minds.

"However recently he managed to slip his leash and given time might regain his humanity, as you are in the process of doing. I need your help to make sure they don't put a new leash on him."

"If he's supposed to be this badass then why does he need help?" Marie asked, sounding like she thought Jason didn't need to get involved.

"One on one he can take down any assassin or soldier sent his way. According to my sources his former bosses are planning on sending six Treadstone operatives."

"How are they getting Treadstone involved?" Jason asked, speaking for the first time in a couple minutes.

"The CIA has secrets. To quote a friend, their secrets have secrets," he replied with a small smile. "Secrets that they don't want splashed across the front page of a newspaper or landing on the desk of someone capable of doing serious damage with the information. With leverage like that, six Treadstone operatives isn't the limit of what they could've asked for but it was probably the most that could get to the west coast of America in less than twelve hours."

The facts he was laying down were definitely having an impact on the couple but he didn't think they were quite at the point where they were willing to join the proverbial party.

Time to show the payday.

"While I'd be touched if you agreed to help out of the goodness of your heart, I didn't come here empty handed," he said, pulling out an envelope from his pocket before putting it on the table.

Just like he'd expected Jason hesitated only for a moment before picking up the envelope, opening it and taking out the wad of papers inside. He waited patiently as the man read what was written on it and, only when those eyes shot up to look at him, did he speak again.

"Your eyes do not deceive you. Seven years ago a CIA man named Abbott stole millions of dollars and turned it over to a man named Yuri Gretkov. Yuri used this money to become one of Russia's richest oil magnets once a man named Vladimir Neski was removed from the picture… by you. It was your first mission after they finished putting you through their unique mental conditioning regime. A CIA deputy director named Pamela Landy will soon close in on the location of files that will implicate both Abbott and Gretkov. Both men intend to frame you for the murder of the operatives sent to get the files, then send their assassin to kill you, turning any investigation that's done into a dead end."

THIS had their attention for sure and what happened next would seal the deal.

"The assassin will come. You and Marie will try to run," he said with sympathy for what MIGHT happen. "You'll get about as far as the bridge before the assassin will put a sniper round through the headrest on the driver's side of your jeep. It could be you Jason. It could be Marie."

"How do you know all this?" Jason asked, his stress level jumping back up.

"I found out the same way I can do this," he said, tapping into his power to manifest a tennis ball sized sphere of energy in his hand.

He made sure to keep the hand close to him using his body as a shield to keep any stray civilians from seeing anything before letting the energy disperse.

"The world is stranger than you know, Mister Bourne. Stranger than most of the alphabet agencies of America know," he said, taking a brief look around to see if he had any more time to talk. "What I just told you is only a possible future for you at the moment. It can be avoided. You can do this by relocating quietly before the assassin arrives or taking the fight to Abbott and Gretkov. Both ways have their dangers but the only alternative is to do nothing."

He didn't need to guess which way Bourne would go.

"Go. Get back to our place. Pack only what you need and your mint condition passport," Bourne said to Marie in a no nonsense tone of voice. "You hop the first bus out of town. Doesn't matter which one. The more random, the better. You keep going for two days and then you find someplace to hole up. I'll find you."

"What do you mean?!" Marie asked in surprise. "You're going to take the job!? We don't need to! We have the information! We don't need to do anything for him!"

The young woman had a point.

If he was willing to use more of his power he could probably erase the information from their minds and incinerate the papers he showed them. However that would without question announce where he was and draw suspicion on what he was doing, so all he had was Jason's honorable nature to bank on. If his love for Marie proved too strong, though, Jason would turn him down and he'd have done all this for nothing.

"You're right. We might not need to do anything for him but I choose to do it anyway," Jason said gently and with warmth. "I don't know if I'm ready to believe he can see the future but if he can then he just saved both our lives and gave me back a piece of my past. I owe him, and if paying him back means helping him out with this then I do it gladly."

Marie's face warred back and forth between arguing further with the man she loved and accepting that his mind had been made up.

"Come back to me," Marie pleaded, revealing her choice to be the latter.

"I promise. I will come back to you." Jason said with the most sincerity he'd heard come from a human's mouth in long time, "I WILL find you."

He let them say their goodbyes and then, with Jason following closely behind, they left the moped business for the sidewalks of Goa.

"So where is he? Where is the guy I'm supposed to save?" Jason asked once they were two blocks along.

"His name is Alexander Harris but he goes by Xander," he replied, fishing out a photo of the young man. "I don't have an exact location on him but he was last seen in Las Vegas, and according to my sources he successfully made it out before the police could seal the city. He's never been anywhere but the west coast, so put yourself in his shoes and track him down. How you proceed from there is up to you but keep in mind he isn't expecting friends or temporary allies."

The unspoken message being that, if Bourne made the wrong move, Xander might decide to bolt or shoot first while asking questions never.

"Assuming I can get him talking and trusting me, then what?" Bourne asked, no doubt coming up with some ideas of his own.

"Work with him to fend off the Treadstone operatives. Either kill them or bring the local P.D. down on them. Xander's handlers value their anonymity very much," he replied before spotting an alley that'd suit his needs. "Once they run out of people that know what the definition of covert means, they should retreat and regroup."

"That could take a while," Jason said, pointing out that he'd prefer not to be apart from Marie for too long.

"Don't worry. I only expect you to fight Treadstone since you know their ways best," he said reassuringly. "Once they're out of the picture, you're free to go."

Sure, he'd like it if Jason would stick around longer but being greedy and not caring about desires of the individual was how The Powers That Be operated.

He'd consign himself to hell before he let himself stoop that low.

A few more words were spoken but then Bourne went left while he turned into the alley he'd spotted so he could covertly return to his chambers on the Roman Mount Olympus.

He was a little surprised to find someone waiting for him there.

Just a little.

"What are you doing, Janus? You know Jason Bourne's not supposed to deviate from the script. None of them are," the badly dressed man from Cleveland said with curiosity and warning.

"A script implies that that they have no say in the matter. We both know that SHE forbids that where humans are concerned," he said, not afraid of the messenger boy in the least.

"Funny thing considering you pretty much just wound him up and sent him off on an errand," the balance demon said, trying to pull a 'pot versus kettle'.

"I used no magic to manipulate his mind and provided him with the opportunity to decline," he pointed out, having long since gotten used to the arguments, "Free will was very much still in play."

Indeed, the terms that SHE put down was that they could essentially whisper in the ears of the mortals, try to persuade them to go one way or another, but any methods that trespassed on a human being's ability to choose freely was forbidden on pain of final eradication.

He could tell that the messenger for The Powers That Be knew this as well.

"Just like it'll still be in play when we 'persuade' him to abandon your little mission," the little man sneered, sounding confident that it wouldn't take much pressure to do that.

"Well, if you're going to get all nasty about it, then I think Bourne deserves a head start, don't you?" asked a disembodied voice before something hit the balance demon in the back of the head, rendering the minion unconscious.

"I could've handled him, you know," he said with mock annoyance.

"Sure you could've, but I've been waiting to do that to this asswipe for the last fifty years," his 'old friend' said, looking down at the unconscious balance demon with a smile. "Besides, not knowing who you're working with will keep them hesitating long enough for Bourne to do his job. After that it'll be too late to get things back on track as far as their plan goes."

"One can only hope," he said quietly before he teleported away from Goa to wait for the next phase of the plan.


	4. A Scent Caught, A Shadow Lengthened

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the copyrighted materials contained herein. They are the rightful property of their respective creators and/or associated companies. I make no profit from this whatsoever and I have no intention of changing this in the future.

 _ **Los Angeles**_

 _ **Morning**_

 _ **Xander's POV**_

"You're shitting me, aren't you?" he asked as he looked at the sight before him.

"Nope. It's yours now," Dom replied with a smile clearly enjoying the incredulity on his face.

"How did you-?" he asked since it was the next obvious question to pop into his head.

"Let's just say that some people shouldn't play in the big leagues if they don't know what they're doing," Dom said with a smile that was more directed at a memory than him.

"No shit! Steve-O was so sure he'd beat you after all the money he threw away!" Letty declared full of mirth. "The look on his face when he lost! Priceless!"

"Who's Steve-O?" he asked while a part of his mind began to piece together how Dominic had gotten him his new car.

"Some big time exec's son who wants to hang with the gangstas so he buys the clothes, learns the lingo and drives around in the best car his papa's money can buy," Leon replied with a grin. "He comes around every once in awhile to prove he's the new top dog in the neighborhood, usually with a new car, and tries to show up Dom. Never works, though."

So Dom had a serious rep locally and was the alpha dog to more than just his crew.

He didn't know whether he was lucky or unlucky to get on the good side of such a person but, for the moment, he was betting on the former.

"So, while I'm probably gonna get laughed at, what type of car is this?" he asked, looking at his new ride that was definitely a league above his old one.

"It's a 1968 Mustang GT 390, and not the one with the two-barrel carburetor but the one with four," Dom replied, keeping his amusement to a grin. "With that you've got three hundred and twenty-five horsepower under the hood."

"Meaning going all out this baby can reach a top speed of a hundred and thirty miles per hour," Vince said, sounding like he definitely respected the car. "Zero to sixty in six point two seconds if you don't spin the tires."

Tossing those facts around in his head that he called the garbage pile spat out that, in terms of acceleration, this put the car a little bit ahead of most police cruisers but in terms of top speed any cop car would be able to match him.

"Just remember that the car's only half the equation. To get the most out of a car the driver needs to know it inside and out," Dom said with an impressive level of seriousness. "He needs to know how much pressure he can put on each piece before it'll break. Once you know all that, it's just a matter of experience."

True.

Anyone could pick up a weapon and use it but it took someone who'd done their homework on their choice and gained the necessary experience to get the most out of it.

"Interested in getting some?" Dom asked in a way that didn't sound like he meant later today or tomorrow.

"You mean right now?" he asked, just to make sure.

"You know any better time?" Dom asked back with a smile, making it clear what he thought the answer was.

"Nope!" he replied, a little excitement seeping into his voice.

With that the keys to the car were tossed to him, Dom got into the passenger seat and he slid into the driver's seat, taking a moment to look over the interior. It was definitely different from what you'd see inside of most cars made in the last decade but he found he liked it. There was just something that to him made this car more valuable than the ones being pumped out of the factories currently and it wasn't just because it was old. There was a certain aesthetic, a certain style, to it that just hit the eyes just right.

"Yeah, it was like that the first time I got into my dad's car," Dom said with a smile of amusement. "Turn the key and it gets even better."

Not one to contradict a man who definitely knew cars way better than him he slid the key to the Mustang into the slot and with a little pressure on the clutch he turned it.

 _Awww, man! Nothing sissy about this ride!_ he thought as he closed his eyes and listened to the rumbling of the engine.

All cars had a certain rumble to their engine but modern cars tended to go for a purr rather than a roar.

He definitely preferred the roar.

Kicking it into reverse, he backed out of the parking spot in front of Torreto's Market and Café before going into first, allowing him to head down the street, shifting gears until he was just at the speed limit. There was definitely a different feel to it than his Chevy but that only made sense with over a decade of changes in automotive design. Being pre-electronics and before most of the modern safety precautions, you needed leg strength to push down the clutch. He found that out the hard way with his Chevy.

"We're coming up on a red light so you'll want to start braking now," Dom said, sounding more like a friend and only a little like a teacher. "One of the reasons the feds started cracking down on car companies and setting certain limits on what they could make was that it was real easy with cars like this to have an accident. One big reason? The brakes weren't always up to the job of stopping in time."

Taking the advice of a pro who obviously spoke from experience he started applying the brakes with increasing pressure and, while not perfect, he managed to stop in time at the lights. For the next half hour or so they went through LA so he could get some practice in turning corners, braking and passing where it was possible. He could feel the power the Mustang had under the hood and without all the extras most modern cars had, getting a feel for a car was a little more literal than most people thought. He had to learn the personality of the car, learn what worked and what didn't, and all without getting into an accident or drawing attention.

Well, no more than what anyone'd get driving a sweet ride like the one he was in.

"You're a fast learner. You sure you never drove a muscle car before?" Dom asked casually as he glanced at the scenery going by outside.

"Nope. The car I got from my uncle is the only thing I've ever driven," he replied, keeping his mind and his eyes on the job at hand.

"Must be a natural, then," Dom said with a nod of acceptance. "Let's see how natural. Take the next right."

With a mental shrug he did what he'd been told and kept following directions until they were outside of the city and on the highway. It took another ten minutes before Dom spoke again, so he assumed that they'd reached their destination.

"This stretch of road isn't used a lot," Dom said as they looked around to confirm this. "This time of day it's completely deserted. No cops. No traffic cams. Just keep your eyes open for surprises. Feel like opening it up and seeing how three hundred and twenty-five horses feels like?"

He just grinned as he kicked the Mustang up another gear and watched the speed climb. From driving the Chevy he knew when it was time to shift to another gear rather than let the RPMs climb too high, so before long the Mustang could go no higher. It was good enough, though, because he could feel through the steering wheel the vibrations the engine was sending through the rest of the car. It wasn't violent vibrations but rather a nice, steady humming kind of vibe that'd some electric massagers could give off.

Feeling a little bold he turned the wheel a bit, just a bit, to see what it felt like to do it at the speed he was travelling at. Watching as he passed over the center line of the road smoothly, he found that he had to put a little more effort into turning the wheel than with the Chevy. Then again he'd never really pushed his old car this fast, so maybe it was the speed more than the car that caused the difference.

Whatever the reason, he was having the time of his life so he didn't really care.

 _ **An Absolutely Average and Unremarkable Motel**_

 _ **Days Later**_

 _ **Treadstone Operative**_

The target had proven unusually difficult to track down.

He had picked up what intel Treadstone had managed to acquire through their usual systems about the target's present location. Normally this would have come in the form of photographs of the street showing target sightings as well as known disguises. A map, perhaps, showing each sighting location as well as a list of people the target had been seen interacting with since his location had been ascertained. However in this case all he had received were a few random traffic camera photos giving him a confirmation of presence and the make and model of a car owned by the target. Not entirely useless but he would require more time to determine a movement pattern as well as strike locations for acquiring the target.

Capturing a target live was not exactly standard operating procedure for him.

In all the times he had been activated, the missions had been centered on elimination of a target with no evidence left behind to aid local authorities in their investigation.

As a result, his lack of experience in abduction of a dangerous target was causing things to move more slowly.

Nevertheless a pattern was beginning to form and, once he determined a proven travel route, he could begin to scout out possible abduction locations.

Looking over to his bed, he confirmed the presence the tranquilizer rifle for long range assault as well as a Taser gun for close quarters subduing. Given the report he had received regarding the previous attempt to acquire the target, he would not attempt a close quarters acquisition unless absolutely necessary. It wasn't that he was not confident of his abilities in close quarters but rather that he believed that such a confrontation would risk violating the low profile requirements of the mission. If he could manage to subdue the target from a distance, collect him immediately afterwards, anesthetizing again as necessary, then that would be the most efficient course of action.

All he needed was a few more days to collect the necessary data and he would be able to proceed to capture phase.

 _ **Las Vegas, Nevada**_

 _ **The Next Day**_

 _ **Ethan Hunt's POV**_

"Okay, what do we have?" he asked as he returned to the room his team had made into their base of operations for the duration of the mission.

"Well, on the one side, ever since the fight at the construction site, locals have been submitting pictures like crazy, claiming they saw the target. Most of it was garbage but we did get a few good ones," Luther said from his computer set up, no doubt combing through what data he could access. "While most of it is from before the firefight, we did manage to get a few from after. They aren't the best but here they are."

With a few keystrokes images popped up on the larger screen that'd come with the equipment package.

 _Luther isn't kidding about the quality,_ he thought since all but one of the photos was too grainy to make much out but what could be made out did confirm it to be Alexander Harris.

"Now, based on the locations the people claimed they took the photos and what we can pick out of the images to confirm the locations, it definitely confirms that he made tracks after the fight," Luther said as a map replaced the photos, showing the locations where they were taken.

"Okay, put up all the bus stations, rental car locations and any reported vehicular thefts that night," he ordered as he tried to piece out Harris' ex-fil route.

One by one dots popped up to signify the locations he'd requested.

Most of the vehicular thefts didn't match the locations of the photographs and the ones that did already had local criminals attached as the perpetrators.

So that meant that unless he had a secondary vehicle at another location, public transportation or a rental was the most likely possibility.

"Okay, start calling up the rental businesses and ask them for any transactions they made within three hours of the fight," he said, drawing up a method of separating the good stuff from the bad. "After that I want a list of all the bus departures heading out of the city for the same period of time. Make sure to let both of them know what we're looking for."

"On it," Zhen said before going to work on the phones.

"What've you got on the fight site, Angie?" he asked the third member he'd chosen en route to Las Vegas.

He'd decided that if they were going to be tracking anyone down someone, it'd be best to have a bloodhound on the team and that was Angela Holtzmann. Her reputation around the IMF water cooler was that she was a bit of an odd one but no one could question the fact that she got results and was solid under fire. As soon as they'd touched down at the airport he'd sent her to the construction site to give the place a look over with some fresh eyes rather than rely on what the local forensic team put in their report. She'd gotten back half an hour ago and looked to be done playing with her lab gear and BOY hadn't that been a bit difficult to sneak by without making anyone curious. The I.M.F. was a covert agency, after all, so it wasn't like they could've flashed some badges at the hotel desk clerk as they went by. Fortunately the excuse of being a movie studio team scoping out potential shooting sites had been swallowed and any unusual gear had been hidden in steel boxes. Now, though, it was all unpacked, set up and was going through the samples that Holtzmann had brought back.

"Well, the place was pretty cold when I got there. Not exactly fresh considering how long it took for us to get here and then get access. Fortunately for you I'm just that awesome that I could still coax some evidence out of what was left," Angela replied, sounding like she'd had fun working the evidence from the crime scene.

"And what'd you find?" he asked, knowing how much she loved spooning out what she'd learned rather than just laying it all out at once.

"You remember the part of the fight where Harris ran around from support beam to support beam and then lit the fuse?" Angela asked rhetorically, since she knew they'd all seen the fight footage. "I took a look at it to see how he did it and the blast points all point to one thing: TNT, and not a lot of it. Maybe one stick of dynamite per beam."

"Doesn't sound like enough considering what they're made of," Luther said from his seat. "Maybe some shoddy construction work helped?"

"Thought about that but a little research into the company working on the site shows a rep for a strong work ethic and solid work across the board," Angela replied with a slight shake of her head. "So I took photos and faxed them to a demolitions expert I know. I told him what I found and what happened and let's just say he was impressed. According to him, it's not impossible to pull something like this off with just a stick of TNT but it'd require expert placement. Off by an inch in either direction and it wouldn't have worked."

"So it's safe to say Harris was either incredibly lucky or has had demolitions training from a professional," he said, factoring that bit into the image he was creating of the target.

"A bit young for that, isn't he?" Luther asked, taking on the role of the skeptic. "He's… what? Eighteen? Nineteen? It takes years to become good enough with explosives to pull off something that'd impress the experts. We'd be taking pre-puberty fairy for Harris."

"My thoughts exactly," Angela said with a smile at having some support. "So I thought to myself, what if the guy on camera wasn't really Harris but someone else. We've seen enough people get plastic surgery to change their looks and we've got disguise tech that's right out of the movies. It'd be more believable that the ass kicker was someone older and just had his face changed to Alexander Harris to throw law enforcement off his track."

"So the only way to find out who he is for certain would be to get a DNA sample and put it through the system to find a match?" he opined, following the line of logic.

"And as it so happens when I was snooping about the construction site, I made finding such a sample a top priority," Angela said with a smug smile. "It wasn't easy. The local C.S.I.s were very thorough. Fortunately they didn't look into a shed that 'Harris' ducked into, or at least not as closely as I did. I thought it was seriously off that no one would've taken a shot at him, seeing as how he wouldn't have had any room to dodge or even see the shot coming. It took some serious examination, we're talking heavy duty magnifying glass and ridiculous scenario analysis, but I managed to locate a viable sample and put it through the usual tests as soon as I got back."

"How long until you get the results back?" he asked, figuring that determining whether or not Alexander Harris was really Alexander Harris was definitely something that needed to be pinned down.

"Well, I kinda cast a wide net, like every database we have access to, so I'm guessing at least twelve more hours," Angela replied, sounding a little disappointed with this number.

Not as soon as he would've liked but he had to admit it made sense.

"Okay. Still, if you're right and this is someone who got their face changed to throw off pursuit then we can still draw up a list of suspects," he said, adapting his approach. "Check with the boys back home. Ask them to draw up a list of person's of interest that have been in Las Vegas for the last month or are due to arrive in the next four weeks. Politicians, C.E.O.s, movie stars, or anyone else that'd rate hiring a professional who'd be willing to change faces for the job. With a little bit of luck we can narrow down the possibilities to two dozen and then find out who'd like them dead or abducted."

"Calling them now," Angela said as she pulled out her encrypted cell phone and dialed.

With that the team had their jobs and, when they were done, he'd be one step closer to finishing the mission and getting back to his wife. She might have been somewhat illuminated as to what he really did for a living but she didn't know everything and, even if she did, he doubted that it'd make her any more understanding about his absence. Once they got a general direction that Harris, or whoever it really was, had headed to, they could try to anticipate likely destinations. In his mind the target would probably only travel at night or during times when the amount of people using public transit would be at their lowest ebb. It'd cut down on the number of people who might see him and spread out funds for a bit since the second Harris was identified his savings account was frozen. The target could try to acquire a new vehicle wherever he went after leaving Las Vegas, so once he had that destination he'd contact the local P.D., asking them to be extra sharp in the area of vehicular theft. If it was one of the larger cities it'd be a nightmare since carjacking and grand theft auto weren't exactly uncommon there.

He groaned as he realized that if he were in Harris' shoes he'd probably do just that: head to the biggest city he could and get lost in the crowd. With so much local crime going on, it'd be near impossible for anyone pursuing him to pick him out of the crowd unless he did something or used something that separated him from the everyday shuffle.

Either they waited for him to make a mistake so they could spot him or they create a situation that enticed him to surface.

Those were the only options they had at the moment unless Angela's database searches turned up something that they could use.

 _Here's hoping he makes a mistake,_ he thought as he turned to the window, looking over Las Vegas.

 _ **Sunnydale, Evening**_

 _ **Rupert Giles' POV**_

RING!RING!

"Giles residence," he said after picking up.

"It's Tom," Thomas said from the other side. "I heard you wanted to speak with me. Sorry it couldn't have been sooner but duty called. You know how it is."

"Quite. There have been more than a few times when duty has held me up longer than I would've liked," he said, recalling a few of the more potent moments all too easily. "Thomas… there's no easy way to put this but I'm calling in my marker."

He didn't like doing this both due to the circumstances in which he'd gained the favor and because it was one of those favors that you only called in as a last resort. It'd been about ten years into his tenure as a Watcher and he had only just managed to silence the few lingering 'Ripper' comments that the members of the Council with clean pasts spoke of for years after his prodigal return. An incident had emerged in America involving a member of a demon clan that the Council worked with, one of the FEW they deigned to work with, and he had been dispatched in order to settle the matter. The demon in question appeared mostly human, with the exception of a unique eye color and the ability to consciously control their skin pigmentation. Most members, when asked, explained the eyes as a unique ocular disorder and, when around people ignorant of the paranormal, they trained themselves to stick to one skin color without consciously having to will it so. Some of the more skilled in this ability could manifest very intricate tattoos without making a single mistake or letting it slip even once.

Sadly the clan member in America had gotten into trouble and, if not extricated soon, he'd be forced to undergo a medical examination by an uninformed doctor. Escaping wasn't an option due to the important nature of the trouble he'd gotten involved in and discovery of his true nature was equally unacceptable. So within twenty-four hours he was in America, speaking with the Navy man in charge of the investigation, attempting to secure the clan member's release. His cover was that of a lawyer sent by a wealthy overseas member of the clan member's family to defend the member and to secure his release by any means necessary. His credentials had been fabricated, he had been coached on the sort of things a lawyer would naturally know and, through Council resources, he'd been given information to encourage the American Navy to see things his way.

Thomas had been one of the Navy personnel involved and hadn't received his interference very well, believing that the clan member had a very important piece to the investigative puzzle. To be fair the man had been justified in his position but at the time he'd taken orders from the Council leadership seriously. Therefore he had done what he could to lay out a convincing argument that the NCIS case would not suffer from the clan member's departure and, when that failed, provided the incentive information. Naturally Thomas and his colleagues had been curious about how this information had been acquired and he'd simply stated that the clan member's relatives had connections with MI-6. Fortunately the Council had influence within MI-6, so getting them to play along with his story had been easy to arrange.

From there it should've been an easy thing to drive the clan member to the airport, pass him his ticket and say goodbye.

Unfortunately the real perpetrators of the crime the NCIS were investigating had jumped to the conclusion that, since the clan member was being cut loose, he'd cut a deal. Their cynicism and criminal tendencies had them convinced that the clan member must've known something pretty important about them in order to be released. As a result they'd cornered the two of them outside of the clan member's apartment, trying to intimidate out of the male what he'd told the Navy investigators. Deciding that there'd be nothing lost in telling the truth, the clan member had told them he hadn't said anything. He'd supported this by explaining that he'd provided incriminating information on other matters in exchange for the clan member's release.

Sadly the guilty men hadn't believed either statement and came to the conclusion that if the two of them were to disappear, so would their problems.

The clan member had been trained in military hand to hand combat and he had been instructed in such matters as well, so they had fought hard to keep their lives. Unfortunately numbers proved to be the decisive matter and for a time it'd looked to be the end for him and the clan member. Someone, a neighbor perhaps, had called in the fight to the local police and the patrolmen had been quick to respond. Not wanting to be caught doing anything incriminating, both he and the clan member had been loaded into a car and driven away before the first police vehicle could turn the corner to spot them. From there the two of them had been taken to a warehouse in the west coast of the city where they were tied up while their captors debated what to do. Their plan to kill him and the clan member had apparently hit a snag since their absence from their base would've been noticed by now and any blood found outside the clan member's apartment would increase the heat in the city.

Faced with possible incarceration and disgrace, they'd decided to try to come up with some story to feed to their superiors to explain their absence and remove suspicion from them when the bodies were found. Given the apparent desperation and lack of intelligence on the part of their captors, he'd chosen to work on freeing both him and the clan member from their bonds. To act as a distraction he'd worked to convince the men that he could help them out and fished for any information that could be useful to that end. For a while it'd looked like he could actually convince the men that further violence would not be necessary and the heat spell he'd employed had almost made the ropes brittle enough to snap with what strength remained.

Unfortunately their luck proved to be still poor as in that moment police cars and NCIS vehicles arrived outside the warehouse, demanding the immediate surrender of the guilty men and the release of any hostages. This had only brought back the fear and irrational thinking that had so consumed the men and had caused them to abandon any hope of escaping punishment.

From that point on all the men had wanted was to escape the law, the city and the country, in that order.

As a result he'd decided that the time for subtlety was over and, with a final push of his magic, the ropes holding him and the clan member had snapped like brittle straw. Knowing the situation was desperate he'd immediately cast another spell to produce bright light, causing the men to be temporarily blinded.

Knowing that neither of them would win a fight even with the temporary advantage, he'd helped the clan member up before running for the nearest door to break their captors' line of sight. As he'd reached two thirds of the way there that he'd spotted a container with U.S. Navy markings on it and on instinct had grabbed it even though his muscles had protested. There'd been a few near misses when one of his former captors had opened fire with his service pistol but in the end both he and the clan member had managed to make it to the safe arms of the police parked outside.

With no more hostages to worry about the police had chosen to storm the building and force a conclusion to the situation.

However someone else had had ideas of their own about how to end the situation that involved engulfing the men in flames through mysterious means. The police had written it off as suicide but an offhand comment by Thomas about no trace of accelerant or even an ignition source had caused him to think of mystical causes. The matter only got more interesting when, upon opening the container he'd pulled out of the warehouse, the contents had been revealed to be four statues made of volcanic glass. The police and the NCIS had been puzzled by this but didn't think it any more important than stolen property that the dead men had stored there. However his mind had come up with a very different conclusion.

The men he'd dismissed as mere human criminals had become members of a demonic smuggling operation.

The statues were of the four principle deities of a species of demon native to Hawaii and would not have been sold off legally to anyone or anything. When he'd asked to examine the statues, citing his archeological expertise, it'd taken some convincing but he'd been given permission in the end. Examination had yielded interesting results in the form of a scrawled symbol on the bottom of one of the statues. Most would've written it off but he'd recognized the symbol and he knew of a breed of demon that had the tendency to put the mark on the things they'd stolen. From there he'd connected the dots and told the NCIS what he thought that the men had been up to, as well as how he could help them further their case.

They had most definitely been interested.

So he'd put a call in to the Council, reported the current situation and had asked for the sanitized file they had on the smuggling operation.

By sanitized, of course, he meant a file that removed all mention of the supernatural, focused on the human and human-looking members of the operation while omitting locations with a high probability of getting anyone uninformed killed. It would be enough to hurt the demons in charge without exposing the police and the NCIS to unnecessary danger. There'd been some struggle with his immediate superior, who didn't want him to go beyond the letter of his orders, but he'd pointed out how grateful the victims of the smugglers would be for their returned property. The possibility of pulling off a major coup for the Council had silenced the opposition and he'd received the modified file by courier the next day.

The NCIS agent in charge of the investigation, as well as those who'd be pursuing the smugglers, had been grateful for the information, however Thomas had been suspicious. A little talking, however, as well as a word from Thomas' boss, had put an end to the inquiry, much to Thomas' displeasure. After he'd seen the clan member to the airport he'd chosen to speak with his future friend in order to smooth over any ruffled feathers. He'd told the Council he'd be sticking around to tie up loose ends but the truth was he'd wanted to ensure that no animosity lingered against the Watchers with the people involved in the investigation. As a result Thomas and he had started with a meal on him as a sort of apology before it evolved somehow into a friendship.

It wasn't anything close like he had with the Scoobies or some of his friends still in the Council but they still spoke over the phone from time to time.

"It must be something big," Thomas said, his voice becoming all business. "I'd figured hellfire would need to be falling from the sky to call in that favor."

"It's nothing quite so dire but it is important to me," he said even though a part of him almost would've preferred it was that serious. "Have you seen the news about the incident in Las Vegas a couple of days ago?"

"Of course. One of the men involved was a Navy man whose file had him listed as KIA until he showed up that news chopper's camera. Now I'm getting heat to find out how it all happened," Thomas replied, sounding like he'd received a reminder not too long ago. "What've you got to do with that?"

"Personally I am not connected however a young friend named Alexander Harris is," he replied before going into his prepared story. "He recently graduated from the high school I've worked at for the last three years. I can assure you that whatever the nature of the altercation, Xander would only ever act in defense of himself or someone who deserved his protection."

"From 'lawyer' to 'high school teacher'. Quite a shift in employment," Thomas said, showing that he still hadn't forgotten the old mystery. "As for Harris, if your friend is truly innocent he needs to turn himself in. He gets asked a few questions, he gives a few answers and, if everything checks out, any crimes he committed can get chalked up to self-defense. From what I saw of the news chopper footage, there's a strong case for it."

"I wish it were that easy," he said, thinking about Xander's life in Sunnydale. "Sadly the local police in Sunnydale do not have the best of reputations among the local citizenry. It was also recently discovered that they had been involved in some shady undertakings for the mayor."

"So he won't trust the police." Thomas said, as though he understood the situation.

"More to the point he won't trust authority figures in general," he said, recalling what he'd deduced about Xander's parents based on various bits of comments he'd overheard. "The only people he's ever trusted were his friends and myself, with both taking time."

"So what're you suggesting?" Thomas asked, not giving any sign of what her thought internally.

"I was hoping… that you could prevail upon the person in charge of the overall investigation into the incident to consider Xander less of a suspect and more as a potential witness," he replied, doing the best he could to not ask too much of his friend. "If Xander can be convinced that he is no longer classified as a criminal and that all that is required to assure his continued freedom is a brief discussion, I believe he would be agreeable to going to the nearest police precinct."

"Assuming I can convince the A.I.C. to go along with this, are you suggesting a televised press conference? A front page article in the major newspapers?" Thomas asked, sounding like he was considering giving in.

"That would be the surest way of letting him know," he replied, knowing how most law enforcement agents disliked the media in general. "Another way would be to locate an intermediary that, once Xander has been located, can approach him with the proposal. Not a police officer but rather someone he would be more inclined to keep an open mind with."

"And if he still doesn't give himself up?" Thomas asked, sounding like he wanted to explore the possibility.

"Then I can only hope that he will return home to Sunnydale once the investigation has been concluded without him and he feels that all pursuit has ceased," he replied, knowing no other reason Xander would return home for.

"…I don't know, Rupert. I know I owe you for helping out with the smuggling case and everything else that happened after but…" Thomas said with a sigh, sounding like it would be difficult for him. "I'll do what I can but I make no promises. This is only a Navy concern because of one of the suspects. That gets us an invite to the table but it's the F.B.I. and the L.V.P.D. who're running the show. I'll try to make a case for what you want but if they ignore it, then that's it."

"I understand, Thomas. Please do what you can," he said, feeling only a little hopeful inside.

"I will, Rupert," Thomas said before hanging up.

Hanging up the phone, he tried to think of any other resources that he could call upon to help the young man he'd started to think of as a son. As far as American resources, Thomas was the best he had, with any others not possessing sufficient authority to influence the investigation that was taking place in Las Vegas. His overseas prospects had authority and influence but their involvement would only raise suspicions about Xander and how a teenager from California could warrant foreign aid.

 _Still… perhaps if a covert operative could be dispatched, they could locate Xander and provide aid,_ he thought as he considered a possibility. _Not to turn him into the authorities but rather to extricate him from whatever trouble he has no doubt stumbled into._

While Xander had proven surprisingly capable during the battle with the Mayor and again in Las Vegas, he very much doubted that the young man could stay one step ahead of the F.B.I. and the police on his own for very long. The Sunnydale Police Department had been both corrupt as well as incompetent, just like Wilkins had no doubted wanted them, so Xander had never faced what a dedicated and experienced law enforcement operation could do. To be quite honest he was expecting federal agents to be paying him, Buffy and Willow visits within the week to ask them questions. As such they were getting together in his apartment tomorrow morning, along with Missus Summers, to come up with normal answers to the questions they'd be asked. They needed to rehearse everything and make sure that there were no slip ups or reasons for the agents handling the questioning to suspect that the answers were prepared in advance.

 _Here's hoping that year I took that drama class pays off,_ he thought ruefully as he remembered his one time on stage.

 _ **Los Angeles, Two Days Later**_

 _ **Xander's POV**_

 _Damn. I thought things were going too smoothly,_ he thought as he tried to keep his face impartial.

It'd been about a block back that he'd first noticed that they had picked up a tail and, thanks to the use of a car's door mirror, he'd been able to get a look at that tail. Before he'd thought maybe some local gang bangers were preparing to pull them into an alley and mug them but the man following them didn't look right for that. The man looked too middle class and the clothes were good for blending into a crowd.

Too good just to be a normal civilian and that likely meant that they'd been chosen especially to ensure that eyes would pass right over them.

That is if you weren't like him and had a knack for seeing what others missed.

He'd counted the number of blocks they were being followed and when it went past five he knew that there was definitely something going on. He couldn't think of a single reason why someone would target Mia like this so that meant that he was the target. While he was reasonably sure it was just surveillance, for the time being he couldn't be sure and he refused to put Mia in danger.

"Hey, Mia? I just remembered something I forgot to get," he said casually as they came to a stop at a crosswalk. "You go on ahead to the café and I'll be there in a little bit."

"You sure? We're not due to open for another hour," Mia said, looking a little puzzled by his words. "I can come with you."

"Nah. It's a little thing but it's still important to the new menu," he said, dismissing her offer to come with. "I know exactly where it is and it'll be a quick pick up. You go on ahead."

With a nod Mia waited for it to be safe to cross the street then left.

He waited until she was completely out of sight before heading off in another direction.

He wasn't just walking aimlessly, though. Since he'd arrived in Los Angeles and begun working at Torreto's, he'd been getting the lay of the land. Where certain stores were located, where all the traffic cameras were mounted, where the ATMs with cameras were positioned and other things that'd help him keep under the radar. He had to do it on his off time and when he wasn't with Dom learning how to drive the Mustang like a badass, but oddly he found he didn't need as much sleep as he thought. He might've learned to manage his unconscious hours thanks to working with the Scoobies but it was still a little odd for him to be able to get by on just four hours of sleep a night. You'd think with only that amount of time he'd need regular caffeine injections to keep from slogging along like a zombie but he didn't feel sluggish at all. Once he realized this he'd had to reorganize his schedule to fill in all the free time he'd been given but he put it to good use.

One good example was that the direction he was heading in would take him to a store that had something that could help with the café cooking but, more importantly, there was a good place for an ambush along the way. He just needed to play out the next few minutes just right or else his tail would likely withdraw and that had the potential to make things worse.

As soon as he got within ten feet of the alley he broke into a sprint and darted around the corner breaking the line of sight as he did so. Without hesitating he leapt for the fire escape ladder and climbed up as swiftly as he could without making too much noise. He went up two stories before hiding behind a planter someone had placed there. It wouldn't provide much cover but, even if it could only buy him five seconds of secrecy, it'd be enough.

Twelve seconds later the tail turned the corner into the alley just as he'd hoped, with what looked to be a tranquilizer pistol in his right hand.

 _So they still want me alive,_ he thought as he slowly rose up from behind cover. _Good. With luck it means they won't use lethal force carelessly._

There was still no guarantee that serious harm wouldn't befall Mia or the others but it gave him more room to work with.

Taking out his Bowie knife that he always wore sheathed beneath his shirt, he hopped over the railing of the fire escape, dropping himself right on top of the guy. The moment his shadow manifested on the ground the man looked up but it was too late, since the speed of his fall was greater than the guy's ability to bring his weapon to bear. They collided and the force of his impact sent both of them to the floor of the alley but, fortunately for him, his human cushion took the worst of it. Surprisingly enough it didn't disorient the man for as long as he'd thought and already the guy struggled to get him off while also bringing his weapon to bear. Aiming his knife, he quickly went for the hand with the weapon, succeeding in slicing half an inch deep but two inches long and this proved to be enough to be enough to cause the tranq pistol to fall.

That was about the most he could do before he was successfully knocked off but he quickly got back to his feet, as did his opponent.

Not wanting to take chances he moved and immediately began to use some of the knife fighting techniques he'd managed to pull up out of his memory through focused meditation. With every move he made he gained a deeper understanding of his opponent's skill level and the sort of training he was being pitted against. The guy was good, no doubts there. While he seemed to have the edge on a physical level, his former shadow was handling it with strategy and skill. While his blade still managed to draw blood, none of the cuts were anywhere vital and bleeding out would take quite a bit of time. Not finding this acceptable he increased the energy he was putting into the fight while mixing in some elbows, feet and fists.

The results began to show immediately as more blows began to land successfully and signs of strain appeared on his foe's face with greater frequency as well.

It was when his opponent made his first serious mistake that the match was decided as an ill timed blow provided him with an ideal opening, allowing him to slide the blade of his knife into the man's armpit, in between the ribs and right into the heart. The man only had enough time to look surprised before the life left his eyes and his body went limp, but he didn't let the guy fall to the ground. There was another reason why he'd chosen this alley and that was because he knew there was a dumpster there that would suit his purposes nicely.

Dragging the body over to it, he adjusted his grip and tossed the man inside before closing the lid.

 _Gonna have to ditch the shirt,_ he thought looked at the bloody fabric. _This color of red's a little too attention grabbing._

Fortunately the weather and the neighborhood made it so one guy walking down the street without a shirt on wouldn't really stand out all that much. Then all he needed to do was sneak into his room at the café so he could slip something else on. Mia would probably wonder about the change in appearance but he'd make up some sort of excuse that'd appease her curiosity somewhat.

PHFT!

A sharp pain blossomed in his right shoulder and on instinct along he turned around his, eyes landing on a woman dressed to blend in much as his deceased sparring partner had. She, however, had managed to nail him with one of the darts and he was already starting to feel the drug's effects setting in. Scooping up a piece of trash from a nearby trashcan, he threw it at his new enemy's head but this was a distraction meant to buy him the precious seconds he needed to cross the gap between the two of them. Some might think that the right course of action would've been to flee but he didn't know how well he'd be able to resist the tranquilizer in his system or how long it'd take to fully hit him. He needed to eliminate the threat quickly and hope that there wasn't a third hostile somewhere close by, waiting to take advantage of the second one's actions.

As he'd anticipated the woman dodged the piece of trash he'd thrown but that had merely been step one.

Step two was him throwing his Bowie knife at her throat, where it would cause her to bleed out within seconds.

However that was not the end of his plan, just the part to make her think that it was.

When she ducked to get under the blade he was crossing into her personal space, executing a palm thrust with the hand connected to his less numb arm. It was still weak and normally he wouldn't put so much stock in the move but he was counting on the combined energy of her ducking and him thrusting would do what was needed.

Lady Luck apparently liked him because, just as he'd hoped, his blow landed right on her nose and succeeded in shoving a splinter from her nose up into her brain, killing her instantly. This time, though, he didn't have the strength to catch her, so she hit the ground and he didn't think he could lift her into the dumpster, so he decided to improvise. Looking with some disappointment at where his Bowie knife had landed, he walked over to it on legs that weren't moving as smoothly as he'd like. Picking it up, he returned to the dead woman before putting the handle of the knife in her hand before wrapping her fingers around it tightly. Once he was certain that her prints were on the handle he used his shirt to wipe down everything he'd touched so none of his prints would show up when things were dusted.

 _Need to get out of here._ He began to make his way to the sidewalk, trying to move as normally as possible. _Even if I can't get back to Toretto's, I might be able to get somewhere safe._

He also needed to start thinking up a way to get out of Los Angeles within the next twelve hours because he seriously doubted that he'd lucked out and had eliminated the only threats looking for him.

 _Damn, this guy's good!_ she thought as she kept her camera lens centered on the target. _Two people down in a matter of minutes and even with tranquilizer in his system he's still moving pretty good._

She'd been dispatched by the organization to monitor the efforts of the Treadstone agents that'd been strong-armed into capturing Agent Grimm, dropping off each tape at specific locations where they'd be picked up by other operatives who'd transport them God knew where.

She was grateful that her orders hadn't included mixing it up with the target herself because she had no doubts that she'd lose miserably. All members of the organization had moderate combat training but her specialty was surveillance and data analysis, making her a poor choice for a capture operation of this level.

Seeing Grimm getting a little too far away from her, she pushed off her left rollerblade and began to coast down the sidewalk, doing her best remain at twice the distance the first Treadstone agent had been tailing his target at. While it was possible that fighting off the tranquilizer's effects would require enough focus for the young man to miss her entirely, she wasn't taking any chances.

Plus the camera she was using had a zoom function, so she wouldn't miss anything.

Even if he turned around she was fairly certain her distraction precautions would keep him from thinking she was an enemy.

After all, whenever she went to the beach she turned heads in a big way and she was only wearing a little more than a bathing suit at the moment.

 _ **Las Vegas, IMF Team HQ**_

 _ **A Couple of Hours Later**_

 _ **Ethan Hunt's POV**_

"What've you got?" he asked as he closed the hotel room door behind him.

"Just finished speaking with the last of the rental company managers ten minutes ago," Zhen replied, looking up from her improvised workspace. "Their bosses need to seriously upgrade their system because there's no way it should've taken this long. ANYWAY, there are no one matches for someone fitting Harris' description renting anything within the time frame and one place was closed from sunset on."

"Bus stations?" he asked, figuring it'd be a little too intricate for Harris to bribe someone to rent a car for him.

"Only two departures within three hours of the fight," she replied, picking up a piece of paper with some notes scrawled on it. "One heading north towards Idaho and another heading west towards California."

"It's California. Get a list of all the stops the bus made within twelve hours of crossing into California. Focus on cities with large populations and plenty of traffic," he said, not even hesitating to put his money on the west heading bus.

"You think he's returning to familiar territory?" Zhen asked, implying that that was what she was thinking.

"Yes, and by going to the more populated cities he'll be making pursuit and locating him more difficult," he replied as he walked over to a large map of the American west coast and put a pin in the center of California. "Even with traffic cameras, ATMs and police patrols, finding someone in places like that can take days. If he's smart he'll look for every camera in the area he's holed up in and avoid them like the plague."

"Wouldn't it make more sense for him to stick to small towns or even head east?" Luther asked, looking away from his computer screen.

"Smaller towns means the locals know everyone who lives there and outsiders are easier to remember," Angela replied, sounding moderately distracted but not ignorant of what was going on around her. "If he's trying to hide, he's going to want as many people to ignore him or forget him as possible."

"Exactly," he said, glad that one of his team had figured that part out. "What about the tests of the samples you took from the construction site? Anything from them yet?"

The fact that Angela didn't respond right away and that a frustrated look appeared on her face told him that she had gotten something but didn't believe it.

"The system did spit back a strong match for who 'Harris'' father might be but it's ridiculous," Angela replied with a shake of her head fueled by incredulity. "There's no way it's true. The blood sample must've been planted for me to find. I ran the tests as many times as I could with what I had and that's why it's taken this long to get back to us but it's still the same. Someone's messing with us."

Now that was odd.

For someone to have deliberately planted the blood sample, they would've been confident it would be found and that the person who discovered the sample would have access to the necessary databases. That meant that they'd counted on an I.M.F. team being dispatched to investigate the incident. Given that the normal problems they dealt with tended to be global problems, or at least ones that could affect nations, a simple firefight wouldn't have been enough to warrant an I.M.F. team. Even if it involved soldiers thought to have died years earlier, it wouldn't have been enough unless one of those men had been I.M.F., or had been scouted for recruitment. He believed that Director Brassel was playing a hunch, going with gut instinct, rather than believing that existing facts warranted an I.M.F. team. Therefore the only way that someone could've planted the evidence would be if the perpetrator or someone connected to them was keeping a close watch on the organization, possibly even having someone on the inside slipping out information.

"Luther? Send word back to Brassel on a triple encrypted line. Tell him to start sniffing about for a potential mole and for any suspicious activity around the building," he said, wanting to cover that potential angle. "What's the result you got back, Angela? If we know what kind of bullshit someone's trying to feed us, we can come up with a list of suspects."

"It came back as you, Ethan. The percentage of DNA that matched you was a little lower than the norm for a parental match but big enough to put you in the 'Dad' category," Angela replied, making it clear she didn't believe it could be true. "The program is still running trying to find a match for the other half, but if one side is bullshit, the other's probably bullshit too."

THIS was not something he'd seen coming.

He'd been expecting some sort assassin or government operative since a lot of the time sons went into the same line of work as their father. Names of people he'd gone up against or worked with on past missions had been floating about his mind as possibilities, but to have Angela name him out of nowhere threw him. Peripherally he was aware that the rest of the team members who'd been in the dark up until a few seconds ago were also thrown but, like him, they were quick to regain their equilibrium.

"What the hell is going on?" Zhen asked, sounding like she'd just been sucker punched. "Who'd bother to whip up a fake blood sample connecting Harris to you, Ethan?"

"Someone with a very, VERY, sick sense of humor," Angela said, putting forth her opinion.

"We'll find out why when we find 'Harris'," he said with anger. "Alert the police of every major city along the bus route to be on the lookout for him. The SECOND we get a credible lead, we're out of here."

Nods all around let him know that his team wouldn't drag their feet when the call came in, leaving him to try and come up with his own answer for why someone would pull shit like this. Most of the people who hated him generally wanted him dead or tortured for a year, THEN killed, so this sort of tactic was atypical. Was he supposed to lower his guard around Harris? Try to make a connection? While he might not be a scientist, he'd been on enough missions to give him a rough idea of what was currently possible and what wasn't as far as science was concerned. The level of gene therapy that would've been needed to alter someone's DNA to make a blood test spit out that he was Harris' father could only be bleeding edge experimental. When she wasn't busy trying to get him a current location on Alexander Harris, he'd have Angela look into putting together a list of companies, think tanks and government laboratories capable of something so advanced.

He had a feeling it'd be a pretty short list.

 _ **Las Vegas Bus Station, That Evening**_

 _ **Jason Bourne's POV**_

 _Getting back into the United States without being detected by the C.I.A. took longer than I thought,_ he thought as he picked his bag off of the ground by the bus he'd taken.

Unfortunately it was necessary, otherwise the . and Treadstone would become aware of his presence before he could even get to Harris. Depending on the level of attention they were giving Las Vegas at the moment, time could be a limited commodity as well. There would be cameras and agents all over the place. If even a single one of them managed to catch him on film and send it back to Langley, the agency presence in the city would double.

He needed to get a line on Harris soon.

Leaving the bus station, he walked over to a conveniently nearby car rental business, intent on getting something with reasonable maneuverability but not something that would stand out in anyone's mind. It only took a moment to do the necessary paperwork while making sure it matched the identity of the passport he was using. Once that was done he departed for the city, intent on conducting reconnaissance on the hotels and motels law enforcement not native to the city tended to stay in. By monitoring their movements and, if possible, listening in on their conversations, he could ascertain how close they were in locating Harris. If they were looking about aimlessly he would put himself in the place of the one Janus had sent him to aid and hope that that would lead him to where he needed to be.

It took a few minutes to get to his first destination and immediately he spotted several cars of the same make and model as those commonly used by federal agents. A van was parked close by that looked to contain equipment ranging from simple communications gear to a directional microphone. Deciding he needed a way to monitor law enforcement activity without getting too close, he altered course to the van, keeping his senses tuned for any sign that someone was looking his way or that they were close by. As soon as the microphone was within arms reach he used the techniques he'd learned to steal something without drawing attention to the act. All it really took was timing, patience and doing it casually enough that it didn't trigger any instincts from those close by that indicated something was amiss.

Once the device was in his hand he slipped it into the small sport bag he had slung over one shoulder, never once breaking stride or changing his pace.

Now that he had what he needed he just needed to find the base of operations for the federal agents, get to a point that was at the maximum effective range of the directional microphone and then aim the device at it. The rest would simply be a matter of waiting for the law enforcement agents to say something useful that he could use to locate Alexander Harris. If Harris was truly another attempt at creating the perfect agent then he doubted that conventional search techniques used by the local P.D. or branch of the F.B.I. would be able to pick up his trail anytime soon. However, if he listened, he could hear them say something significant that his mind could extrapolate on to give him his next destination. It was a given that Alexander was no longer in Las Vegas, since there would be too high a risk of being spotted. If he had been in Harris' shoes, he would've immediately made an effort to leave the country, or at least the west coast of America. The U.S. was prolific with cameras, both used by the government and by private businesses, making going anywhere without being caught by at least a handful of them almost impossible. Sure, the quality of the images varied from camera to camera, but with some of the enhancement programs used by the alphabet agencies even the worst could be made useful.

Unless you wanted to live your life as a hermit in the middle of nowhere, with only what nature provided to sustain you, sooner or later you got caught on camera.

Getting back into his rental, he took out a cell phone he'd pickpocketed from a fellow passenger on the plane to Las Vegas and dialed the number for the hotel. A few simple questions and a bluff allowed him to get a room number then from there he just had to remember the general layout of most hotels. It took two or three tries but eventually he managed to zero in on a room bustling with activity populated by people using terms consistent with federal agents.

"What've you got, Thompson?" a man with a gravelly voice asked sounding a little frustrated.

"We've finished the last of our searches but have turned up nothing. Harris isn't in Las Vegas anymore," 'Thompson' replied, sounding like he hated wasting his time. "Probably hightailed it the same night he got caught on camera sir."

"Yeah, I guess so. Still, we had to be thorough," The Gravelly Man said, sounding disappointed. "We'd look like fools if we left chasing down buses and cars if Harris was still in Las Vegas. Now that we know for sure that he's not here, we can start figuring out where he's gone."

"My money's on heading back to the west coast," Thompson said with firm confidence. "According to his file he's from a small town called Sunnydale. He might not head back there specifically, since he's got to know we'll send people there, but he'll still want someplace familiar."

That would be the logical course of action to take. Stick to familiar territory and use that familiarity to find a place to lay low that wouldn't be easily found. If Harris went someplace he wasn't familiar with, he'd only wind up making more mistakes and that'd make him easier for his pursuers to find.

"Then we learn all we can about Sunnydale and then find cities or towns that're similar," The Gravelly Man said, deciding the next course of action for his team. "Once we find the top three candidates we alert the police in each one and head to the most likely ourselves. Let's get to work!"

Also logical but it was definitely the harder way to approach the problem.

Harris's goal was to hide someplace until the search for him lost steam and the amount of resources dedicated to his arrest were reduced by at least half. So where in California could the young man hide well enough that neither the alphabet agencies or local police would be able to find him without committing more resources than they were likely to want to? A place where they'd be a lot of ground to cover as well as a great many hiding places to search. That meant the smaller towns would not be considered since they could be searched in relatively short order. Only the larger cities with the higher populations would meet the necessary criteria for hiding.

With a premise in mind he shut off the direction microphone and put it back into his bag before returning to his rental. Even though he now had an idea of where to look, he still needed to narrow it down more if he wanted to find Harris before the law did.

It didn't take long before he was flowing along with the rest of the traffic but, as he did so, he kept an eye out for an internet café. Once he was online he'd be able to sift through the information to see what cities would be most advantageous to hiding as well as disadvantageous to pursuers. While some might think that finding the nearest forest would be the best for going into hiding, it would require resources that Harris likely didn't have. Acquiring the resources either through legal purchase or theft would only risk exposure and leave a clue as to where to go next. Staying to the interior of a city would make it harder to be traced or tracked, since the sheer amount of data would take weeks to sift through to definitively tie to Harris.

Add to that the fact that it'd be difficult to lock down such a major city and keep it locked down in anything but the short term and all Harris would have to do was wait the law enforcement community out.

Then again, perhaps he was overstating things.

While the firefight in Las Vegas had attracted a lot of attention, the laws that'd been broken weren't really all that serious. Without grounds for labeling those involved as an ongoing threat to the citizens of the United States or the government, the alphabet agencies wouldn't remain involved for long. They'd put forth a good effort for a few months but, if nothing substantial came of it, they'd pull back and leave the grunt work in the hands of the police. Once that happened Harris would have a much easier time moving, so long as he didn't do anything to draw attention to himself again.

Once that happened he'd fall behind again and he couldn't let that happen, or Marie would worry about how long he was taking.

She might try to do something foolish like follow him.

He couldn't let that happen.

 _I'm on your trail, Alexander Harris,_ he thought as his eyes spotted the sign of an internet café. _I will find you._

 _ **Los Angeles**_

 _ **The Following Day**_

 _ **Xander's POV**_

 _Damn, that stuff was potent!_ he thought as he snuck into the room he was loaning from Mia. _Took me forever to get back here._

Of course that could have to do with the fact that he'd taken a more roundabout route back, just in case he'd picked up a tail. The strength of the tranquilizer surged and sagged throughout the trip but, based on how he felt now, he figured his body was about halfway through flushing it from his system. By the end of the day he'd be back to normal but that'd take too long in his mind. He'd killed two operatives who were clearly looking to capture him. When they didn't report back in like he was sure that they were supposed to, the enemy would up their game to double the chances of victory next time. Would that mean that they'd drop the subtlety and attack him head on? Possibly. He was in the dark when it came to what resources his enemy had and, if it included the means to cover up a small planned firefight or accident… he was still low on ammo. He hadn't been able to find a place where he could get some because of the number of CCTV and security cameras around the addresses of the gun shops that carried Desert Eagle ammunition.

He was sure that by now the investigators in Las Vegas had come to the conclusion that he'd left and would now be canvassing places he might've fled to.

Los Angeles was definitely a possibility, especially if they checked the bus routes for the last night he was seen in Las Vegas.

If a commotion got started it'd just hasten their arrival all the more and he might not be as lucky as he had been before when he'd left before they'd set their net up.

 _Gotta pack up and leave now,_ he thought as he pulled the bloody shirt off and tossed it in the trash. _Every minute counts._

Good thing he'd had the foresight to jot down all the new recipes he'd come up with for Mia onto paper and left them behind the register. He'd kept the instructions as simple and as detailed as he could manage so that she wouldn't have any trouble making them on her own in the future. When added to the addresses of the shops that carried the ingredients and he was sure that the business would continue to do better.

That was assuming that Mia, Dom and the others didn't give his pursuers a reason to believe that they knew something or had some value has hostages. If either possibility became reality then he'd just brought down a whole world of pain down on the heads of the people who'd been nothing but helpful since he'd come to Los Angeles.

He couldn't let that happen.

After doing one last final check of his bag to make sure that nothing sensitive would be left behind for his pursuers to find, he threw it over his shoulder. If he played things just right, he could make a showy enough departure that they'd focus on that rather than trace his path back to its departure point. That would ensure that they wouldn't know of Dom and Mia's involvement, allowing them to escape scrutiny and hopefully continuing on with their lives.

What would he do if they did get put under a microscope?

The best he could do was probably the one thing that his employers would kick his ass for if he ever saw them again: bring down as much media attention and police presence as he could on them. If the incident in Las Vegas taught him anything it was that his former 'owners' did not wish knowledge of their existence to become fact. So while he imagined that they'd be able to cover up a small incident, if it reached moderate or large then that was another story altogether. It'd likely force them to maintain their distance until the presence of both the police and media died down to a level that they could control. Hopefully by that point he'd have caused enough of a spectacle someplace else that they'd put investigating what he'd been up to in Los Angeles on the back burner in favor of something more current.

 _Please, God. I know we aren't on the best of terms but please don't drag Mia and her friends into this,_ he thought as he walked through the door to his room and turned towards where his car was parked. _They don't deserve it._

Pushing open the side door to the Market/Café business, expecting to see his GT 390 but, much to his shock, he found even more than that.

Mia.

Dom.

Letty.

Even Vince was there, scowling at him but not as fiercely as the man had during their first meeting.

"Going somewhere, Xan?" Dom asked casually, though anyone with any insight could sense an undercurrent of seriousness to his tone.

Damn.

He could only presume that when he didn't show up when Mia expected him to she got worried and either told her brother or convinced him to go out looking. The others probably got involved because they followed and believed in Dom more than actually caring about him. Had they seen him come back? Probably, if they knew to be waiting for him in front of the car they'd gotten for him. Obviously they wanted an explanation for where he'd been and why he'd ditched Mia. The problem with that was that if he told them the truth, it'd only make them a source of information as well as a potential loose end to deal with.

Better to play things as close to the vest as he could.

"Yeah. Wind's blowing weird," he replied, keeping the details sparse. "I've learned that that's usually a sign to move on. Should have enough money to get me someplace with a little less bluster."

"You know just 'cause things get a little windy it doesn't mean you have to leave. Sometimes finding someplace with solid walls and a good roof overhead is better," Dom said in his usual gruff manner.

There were a lot of ways that the words could be interpreted but one of them could be that Dom had suspicions about what was going on; nothing beyond bits and pieces but enough to justify this little confrontation. No doubt the bald guy wanted to know more so he could decide what to do next but that was the one thing that he couldn't do.

In this situation having only a little information was a good thing for these guys.

"Sometimes but not always. Sometimes if you've got a foul wind following you, you should take it away from other people," he said, using Dom's method of conveying a message. "Makes it so the stink doesn't rub off on the wrong people."

"Why don't you let us worry about what kind of stink we want on us?" Mia asked, butting into the conversation and not wanting to bother with the metaphors much. "When you didn't show up I went back to where I last saw you! There were police everywhere!"

Shit.

He'd figured that since he hadn't been able to put the second body someplace concealing that it'd get spotted sooner or later but he'd been hoping that the fight had happened deep enough into the alley to buy him some time. If the cops were swarming the place by the time that Mia got back there then either the fight hadn't been deep enough in or someone had tipped the local P.D. off. It was probably more the former than the latter because he couldn't think of a single reason why his pursuers would draw this kind of attention to their activities. Whatever the reason, it was just one more thing telling him to get out of town sooner rather than later since two dead bodies of highly trained people or people with no paperwork might raise some flags.

Flags of the kind he'd rather not linger below.

"Look, I've got some people looking for me. I'd prefer if they didn't find me," he said, figuring he owed them at least this much. "Two of their trackers were trailing us coming home, Mia. I didn't want to get you mixed up in it so I broke off from you and took care of things."

"Then everything's okay," Mia said, sounding a little more at ease now that she had some answers.

"No, it isn't. Is it?" Dom asked, a somewhat stony look crossing his face.

"No. When the mutts don't run home to their master, the master's gonna come looking with the rest of the litter," he replied with a shake of his head. "I appreciate the offer of some backup, Dom, but these guys are a little higher up the ladder than Johnny Tran and his bunch. They want me 'cause I'm an investment that decided to make his own way instead. So far they're playin' it soft and quiet. Problem is 'soft and quiet' for them is still hardcore for everyone else. If they decide to kick it up a notch, I don't want them upgrading you guys from gravel to gold. I don't want to bring this kind of heat to your doorstep if I can help it."

For a time silence was all that existed and he watched as Dom and the others mulled over what he'd just told them. He knew he'd already put them in harm's way a little bit just telling them the basics in metaphors but he hadn't wanted to run the risk that, by clamming up, they'd start digging. He didn't know them that well, not really, but unanswered questions about people they knew would be like an itch to them. Whether it'd be enough to act on or just something that would go away, given enough time, he didn't know.

He just hoped that he hadn't ruined their lives by hanging about.

"You don't want to cause us trouble. I respect that and appreciate it," Dom said seriously, looking right at him, "but, want it or not, enough people have seen you around the neighborhood that they're going to find their way back here. Splash your face on a newspaper, on TV, they're gonna know. Now a lotta people respect me, so even if they know you're wanted they'll keep their mouths shut until I say otherwise. Other people, though… they're gonna talk."

Damn. He had a point.

He might've managed to stay clear of cameras but not people and, once his face got posted through the media, anyone who didn't owe him anything or didn't like Dom would squeal.

He thought he'd been smart, stayed under the radar and kept his problems from becoming someone else's problem, but there was no hiding from this. Just by being around people he set off waves and changed their lives.

"So how far you willing to go with this, Dom?" he asked, trying to convey the kind of trouble coming down the highway.

"How far do I need to go?" Dom asked, countering his question with a question of his own.

"They know I'm here but it looks like they still want to keep things low profile," he replied, summing things up. "Assuming that hasn't changed, they could try pulling the police Halloween schtick to make me come quiet or they could try grabbing one of you guys and use them as leverage."

"Sounds to me like the best protection possible is the spotlight," Letty said, speaking up for the first time. "Get as many eyes on us as possible. Can't pull any sleight of hand shit if no one's looking the wrong way."

"Got any ideas about how to do that?" he asked, seeing this as a revision of his spectacle departure idea.

Dom just grinned at him.


	5. Plans and Problems

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the copyrighted materials contained herein. They are the rightful property of their respective creators and/or associated companies. I make no profit from this whatsoever and I have no intention of changing this at any point in the future. I write because it's fun and because there are those who enjoy reading my stories. Therefore I would appreciate it if no legal action were taken against me because I can promise you that even if you financially drain me dry it won't cover even half your legal fees.

 _ **Undisclosed Location**_

"We have a location. Los Angeles," W-Woman said from her chair.

"Order all the Treadstone agents there," S-Man demanded, sounding like he didn't want any more mistakes or failures. "He can't defeat all of them."

"He doesn't need to. He's beaten two of them already," W-Woman said, revealing the details of her report. "We learned where he was because he successfully killed two of the Treadstone agents when they tried to apprehend them. The Detail Division has already recovered both while inserting false data into the police mainframe."

"I thought these Treadstone agents were supposed to be professionals!" S-Man exclaimed in anger at this news. "AND where was the oversight agent!? She was supposed to be recording everything and follow him in the supposedly unlikely event that he got away!"

"Calm yourself, my friend," N-Man said, still being in possession of his composure. "All this means is that Agent Grimm truly is what we wanted him to be. Besides, Treadstone agents were originally indoctrinated to be killers rather than abductors. A drop in efficacy is to be expected from such a deviation from their designed purpose. As for the oversight agent, they're meant to observe and not get noticed by the one they are observing. Most likely in her effort not to get noticed Agent Grimm slipped past her and now she's terrified that certain easily upset individuals will terminate her employment."

S-Man still looked angry but the facts as they were laid out weren't ignored like some might expect. He wouldn't have earned his chair if he did ignore accurate facts.

"I am not ignorant of the… discrepancies between what Treadstone's original purpose was and what we have asked them to do. I think we are all beginning to appreciate just how skilled Agent Grimm truly is," S-Man said, sounding calmer but no less serious. "As for the agent, I reluctantly concede that termination is an extreme response. Perhaps a refresher course in her job by someone suitably strict would be in order to ensure that the lessons are learned… WELL."

"Agreed," N-Man said with a nod of approval. "Now, sending the remaining Treadstone agents after Agent Grimm is the prudent course of action and it must be done soon. My own resources inform me that I.M.F. is proving more resourceful in tracing him than the conventional federal agents."

"I.M.F! Don't tell me they sent-" E-lady said, voicing what the rest of them were likely thinking.

"Hunt. Ethan Hunt and three others," N-Man declared, sounding almost amused. "One of them has already run a DNA sample acquired from the construction site and made the genetic connection to Hunt. It is unlikely that they believe what the results stated but it will provide them incentive to be extra vigorous with their pursuit."

"Do they know he's in Los Angeles?" S-Man asked with some concern.

"No. Merely that he is in California, but Hunt has a sharp mind and his team is capable," N-Man replied, showing where his opinion rested. "It will not take them long especially with the police investigation surrounding the two dead Treadstone agents."

"Then it happens tonight. Send word to the remaining Treadstone agents," E-lady said, making the call. "A joint effort between the four of them. Upgrade their parameters to light damage permitted. If Agent Grimm is performing beyond our expectations, then we must adjust his apprehension parameters accordingly."

"Such an adjustment will draw more attention from the 'unenlightened'," W-Woman stated but with no additional concern. "We should also alert our assets in the media and Los Angeles law enforcement to prepare the 'truth' for public consumption. Properly delivered, no one should give what happens more than a single glance."

"They will not have time to make the 'truth' seamless if the Treadstone agents attack tonight," N-Man pointed out as the group settled on its present course of action.

"We can discredit any oddities the conspiracy nuts point out afterwards and the masses will care little," S-Man said dismissively at the point made. "So long as it is 'trusted sources' whom do the discrediting, of course."

"True enough. Let us hope that all goes smoothly," E-Lady said, keeping her voice neutral.

While some might end such a discussion with a statement of unwavering confidence, that was not the case this time because of one very important variable.

Chance.

It was the one thing that had proven to be on Agent Grimm's side from the moment he rejected the order to proceed to the Nevada facility.

Would it stay with him still?

 _ **Los Angeles, That Night**_

 _ **Top of Mulholland Drive**_

 _ **Dominic Toretto's POV**_

"Are you sure about this, Dom?" Letty asked as they continued to watch the usual crowd of racer arrive. "This isn't going to be like the others. The cops are going to be all over us the second we start."

"That's the point," he replied, never taking his eyes off the growing crowd. "The more eyes on us, the better the odds of Xan getting away clean."

"Ya didn't answer my question. Are you sure?" she asked, not letting him slip free so easily.

He knew what she was getting at.

Normally when they had a street race, they made sure there was something happening on the opposite side of the city that'd keep as many cops busy as possible. They'd also have someone who could tune into the police dispatch to let them know the second their race had been discovered so they could bail before they got surrounded. The roads they chose to race on usually were also ones that were only lightly patrolled by the police, with all stores and shops being ones that closed early.

Basically they valued their privacy and anonymity.

Mulholland Drive was one of the longest streets in Los Angeles and, while not one of the busiest streets at night, it was one of the most dangerous to race on. Curvy as all get out, a driver going down it at a normal rate of speed had to keep their eyes on the road and be careful, otherwise they'd either go off the side or slam into someone. When added to the presence of several homes belonging to the rich and powerful, the recipe practically screamed that it'd grab attention.

But like he'd said that was the point of this race.

While Xander might not have been all that forthcoming with the details, he'd said enough for him to gain a basic grasp of the situation. Mia's employee had crossed someone and they wanted him caught but they, whoever THEY were, didn't want to attract attention to their actions. Without knowing who THEY were, predicting what they'd do or what they COULD do was impossible, but if they were a step above the gangs and the police, he'd have to play this safe. Finding someplace for Xander to hold up in until the heat died down wasn't an option since there was a chance that a connection had already been made between the teen and Mia. Fighting them off also wasn't an option since he didn't know what kind of firepower they'd be bringing or how many were after Xander.

That left just one option: a big race where there'd be too much action to follow one specific person.

A six car race to be precise, running the entire length of Mulholland Drive.

They'd mix Xander's car into the six and make sure the fight for the lead position was fierce. The noise of the engines along with the screech of the tires would wake up the top ten percenters who lived along the street, causing them to call in the police. He figured that at best they'd have four minutes after the race began before the cops would begin showing up, and the longer it went after that the more police cars they'd have after them. With so much action in one place no one looking to do something without being noticed would be able to make a move. Sure, the chaos would make keeping track of everything hard but with the cops present the moment someone succeeded in bringing Xander's car to a halt, the patrol cars would swarm him to arrest him.

Of course that wasn't what they wanted but so long as the people after Xander were aware of that possibility they wouldn't act rashly.

There was also the secondary advantage of having a large number of cop cars involved: traffic congestion.

The people after Xander wouldn't be able to follow his car on foot and that left either a car or perhaps the police chopper. The former would be easier to acquire than the latter, especially since the odds were low that the unknowns would have more than an hour or two to become aware of the race. However with so many cars on the road, from civilians to racers to police, getting close to Xander's vehicle would not be easy assuming it was possible at all. The best they'd be able to manage would be to go down parallel roads and wait for a moment to cut their target off or anticipate where the race would come to an end and lay in wait there.

Not that they were going to let that work out either.

Another reason why he'd chosen Mulholland Drive as the race route was that along the way there was a garage just off to the side owned by a racing regular. Timed right, Xander should be able to slip off to the side and into the garage without being seen. At the same time Xander pulled into his hiding place, another car of the same type will emerge just a little further down the road.

Easy enough to do when dealing with Steve-O.

Kid went nuts to hear that he was getting a request from him to pull a fast one on the cops. So crazy that somehow he'd managed to get a copy of the car that now belonged to Xander in time for the race, though it was missing some of the modifications.

Didn't matter. All that mattered was that it looked identical on the outside.

Assuming the switch went off without a hitch the race would continue until the concentration of cops made racing impossible, at which point he'd give the scatter signal to the other racers. It'd be tight but, with the exception of Steve-O, who had a rich dad to get him out of trouble, the others were either solid racers or people he wouldn't particularly care if they got arrested.

For the thirty thousand dollars, though, everyone would follow the plan, though.

That's what you got with a five thousand dollar buy in to the race and greed would be enough to keep the assholes on track.

But that wasn't really what Letty was asking about.

She wanted to know if he was sure about bringing so much heat down on him for someone who they were only just getting to know in a deeper way than a regular around the neighborhood. Given how much they'd be in the spotlight of the cops, it'd be harder to deny having been involved even if none of their cars would be sporting license plates. A lot of street racers put their own signature touches on their rides, making it easy for those who knew them to pick them out of a crowd. The cops probably had that kind of info, too, and that meant probably that once this was all over with he'd probably have to find a completely new ride while sending the one he had to the local chop shop. It'd be hard but it wasn't like he hadn't done it before.

Still, normally he only went this far for one of his crew, his family, and in terms of time, Xander hadn't been around long enough for that.

So why was he doing it?

Because the kid had done Letty a solid by helping her mom out with Johnny.

Because he didn't try to deal with the tails he'd picked up yesterday while Mia was still around.

Because he believed Xander when he said that the last thing he wanted was to get any of them mixed up in his mess.

The kid had built up some good karma with him, so he felt this was the way to pay it back in full. With this race Xander would be able to slip past the eyes looking for him and probably skip town without anyone being the wiser. So long as he didn't draw attention to himself, he could very well make it to the other side of the world before anyone realized the truth.

"Yeah, I'm sure about this," he replied with no wavering in his voice. "Xander's done right by us. The least we can do is help him lose the bloodhounds tracking him."

"And if any of us gets arrested by the cops?" Letty asked, pointing out a very real possibility.

"I'm the only one racing," he said, making it clear he didn't want any other member of the crew involved in the race. "Have to if I want the other drivers I called in to race."

He could immediately tell that Letty didn't like him being the only one to put his neck on the chopping block but in his mind it had to be this way. This stunt was going to bring down way more heat than any of the other street races he'd ever been in and it'd take some seriously skilled driving to get away from the police after Xander's disappearing act. Plus, if he actually did get nabbed by the police, he was sure the crew could get him out before the patrol car reached the police station. Done right, no one had to get hurt and they'd just have to get rid of cars they were going to have to ditch anyways.

Letty looked to have worked all this out in her head already and, as a familiar devil may care grin appeared on her face, he knew he could count on her.

He'd always been able to count on her.

On every member of his crew.

"Looks like Leo's finally here," he said pushing off the side of his car. "Time we got this race started."

For all the trouble that they'd have to deal with, a part of him couldn't help but be psyched by what was about to happen.

It was going to be intense!

 _ **The Streets of Lost Angeles**_

 _ **Jason Bourne's POV**_

"All units! All units! Illegal street race reported on Mulholland Drive. All nearby units move to respond," the police dispatcher announced over the radio.

Looking at the car parked four blocks away, he knew the moment it started its engine and turned on its lights that his suspicions were correct, thus he moved to follow it.

Pulling into traffic but making sure to stay as far back from the vehicle he was following as he could without losing it entirely, he thought on his arrival earlier in the day. It'd been his initial intent to track down Harris, confirm the current situation and then offer his aid in dealing with the Treadstone agents sent to capture him. However, in a moment of clarity, he'd realized that if he'd done so he would have lost a crucial advantage: surprise. By now he was certain that the Treadstone agents had managed to locate their target and were only waiting for the optimum moment to strike. That being said they likely had Harris' location under some sort of surveillance so they'd know when and where to strike, so if he showed up there he'd lose his element of surprise.

That was why he'd instead chosen to track down at least one of the Treadstone agents.

He might remember very little of what came before waking up on that fishing boat but the skills he'd gained as a Treadstone agent were accessible to him. By acting as they would, by walking in their footsteps, he'd managed to find one and after that it'd just been a matter of waiting for that one to act.

That moment was now.

Evidently Harris was involved in the street race in some way, likely as one of the drivers, but this struck him as somewhat illogical. On the flight to America he'd taken some time to put himself in Harris' place and the one dominant theme was that the young man would hide until he could take action on HIS terms rather than react to his pursuers. By taking part in the race, he was telling his pursuers where he was while also providing cover for his own abduction since it was unlikely that anyone would notice a few more faces in the crowd at the finish line.

There was also the possibility that they'd strike during the race if they could figure out a way to hit the car their target was driving in such a way that Harris would be dazed but not seriously hurt but that felt too risky. To his knowledge, taking out a vehicle while it was in motion was volatile work even if effort was taken to be precise and measured. Shooting out the tires or the engine held the possibility of the vehicle going out of control and slamming into something. Sometimes the car would even wind up rolling end over end. With no way to be absolutely certain of the car's reaction, it was more likely that they'd wait until Harris had come to a complete stop or became separated from the other racers.

That was when they'd act and, coincidentally, that would also be when he would act as well.

 _What I've managed to scrounge up should be enough to vanish with Harris_ , he thought, looking at the bag that rested in the passenger side seat. _After that I can find out more about the program that made him what he is. Once I have that information, I can advise him on what course of action to take._

He had no intention of staying in the States any longer than he had to. As much as he might want to help another person looking to break free of a terrible organization, he was certain that every American alphabet agencies would find out he was there sooner or later. Once they did they'd only bring more heat down on California and make getting back to Marie all the harder.

Seeing the Treadstone agent's car turn to the left, he did his best to maintain a safe tailing distance, though he didn't want to lose his target. He might know where the man was going in general but it'd be more advantageous to his goals to know precisely where the agent was at all times. That way he could both confirm Harris' location AND take out the agent before the man could act. There were likely other agents but, without any way to know where they were, he would have to hope that they'd either be close by or in a long shot working together.

If not then he'd have to hope that Harris was as good as he was at sensing when he was in danger.

It was about ten minutes later that the Treadstone agent's car pulled over to the side of the road and, judging by their position relative to Mulholland Drive, it was obvious that the car would not be employed as a method of immobilizing Harris. He pulled his car over to the side three blocks further down to keep the agent from realizing that he'd been tailed. Grabbing his bag, he entered a nearby alley and began to navigate the connecting ones to bring him onto a path parallel to where he'd seen the agent go.

He had to be swift but he also had to be silent.

As soon as he laid eyes on the agent he immediately took cover, pressing himself against the side of a dumpster, before peeking around it to watch the man proceed.

Following closely, he was always on edge and on the lookout for signs that he'd been detected but then he heard the sounds of the man climbing up a building's fire escape. Deciding that his chance to get into position had come he moved to the building behind the one that the agent had climbed up and ascended as quietly as he could. It wasn't easy since external maintenance wasn't a priority in this neighborhood but when he reached the rooftop he crouched down as low as he could manage to keep from being seen. Once he reached the edge he was fortunate to find a short wall around the periphery of the roof that was just tall enough that getting down onto his knees was enough to conceal his presence. Peeking over his shoulder, he could see the man was taking something out of a carry bag but it wasn't until he saw the long barrel that he realized what it was: a rifle. More than that he could tell from the barrel that it was a tranquilizer rifle rather than the one meant to fire bullets.

 _Feasible. California weather often means that drivers need to move about with their windows down_ , he thought as he watched the assembly of the tranquilizer rifle. _Timed right, a dart could make it through to Harris._

Depending on how fast acting it turned out to be, the agent's target might still have time bring the car to a stop safely. This would be the preferable course of action because, if Harris was indeed racing, injecting him with something that would take effect quickly, the odds of a massive as well as fatal accident went up.

"—in—ition. Status?" the agent whispered quietly enough that he was only able to catch bits and pieces.

It was enough though.

It confirmed that the agent wasn't working alone and that he was just one part of a multi-pronged operation to capture Harris. Still, this could be used to his advantage since, if defeated, the agent in front of him just as the race reached their position, then it'd throw off the actions of the others. It might even cause them to pull back rather than proceed with an unknown element in play. Their reaction would depend on just how crucial each member was to the success of the overall plan but, if their instincts were anything like his own, it would take some urgency to make them continue. Without knowing their specific orders, he wouldn't know just how far they would be willing to go to get Harris or whether they'd have the operational flexibility to pull back and try again later.

Still, he'd dealt with situations where he had little intel on the enemy before, so he could adapt.

Hearing the sound of roaring car engines and the honking horns of angry civilians, he could tell that the racers were getting closer. Looking over his shoulder, he could also see the flashing lights of the police moving in to arrest the racers. The window of opportunity for saving Harris or capturing him was closing quickly, so if anything was going to happen it was going to be soon.

 **Better get ready** , he thought as he opened his own bag in order to get the first part of his plan.

 _ **Xander's POV**_

 _Almost time for phase two_ , he thought with a mind as strong as the inner workings of a large clock.

It'd been a tense race, especially since, unlike the normal street races, they weren't doing it on a remote road that was clear of all traffic. Not only did each of the drivers have to jockey for position in order to win the prize money, but they also had to make sure not to hit any civilian vehicles. Doing so would only bring more heat down on them later and could possibly cost them the race, so that was indeed an extra bit of challenge for the six of them. It'd been tough for him to stay in the thick of the pack in those kinds of conditions but fortunately his time on the back roads with Dom had given him a good understanding of what his car was capable of. From there it was just a matter of evaluating every opening that appeared and determining if the GT 390 had what it would take to make it through in time.

However there'd been times in which he'd passed up openings since it was not his purpose to win the race, but rather to make it harder for the forces pursuing him to take action.

Now, though, they were less than ten blocks from the garage that from the outside looked like it was closed for business, however inside there were people just waiting for him to get close enough to slip inside and would be signaled, by Dom, who was in the lead, on when to open the doors. With that in mind he flipped a switch that Jesse had installed a few hours before the race. Immediately thereafter the car engine began to make odd sounds and his speed began to fluctuate in a way that couldn't be seen as controlled. He dealt with the fluctuating as he'd been trained to and, just like Dom had told him, the other racers were quick to take advantage of his problem to their benefit. He managed to keep up with the pack until just before his drop off point but, when his turn came up, he broke off and the garage door opened up. With the car safely inside and concealed from observing eyes he used the switch again to restore his car to normal function.

"And we're clear!" declared the guy crouched by the garage's only window.

"Thanks for the help, Hector," he said as he got out of his car.

"Don't mention it," Hector said, brushing off the gratitude. "Dom and his crew've done right by me. He asks for help and it's not a problem. 'Sides, if lettin' you in and giving your ride a new paint job is all this is gonna cost me then it's a job not even worth mentionin'."

True enough.

Even as the other people who'd been in the building worked like a well-oiled machine to prep his car for painting and then get to work on the actual painting, he realized how much Dom was respected by the racing community. He didn't know precisely how it'd come to be but he imagined it was from numerous won races against difficulty opponents, treating others with the respect they deserved and not selling anyone out to the police. In the end it mattered little so long as they were able to complete the paint job on time.

Hearing the roar of a familiar engine, he took that to mean that the person driving an identical 1968 Mustang GT 390 had 'rejoined' the race, hopefully without anyone being the wiser. It was his judgment that his pursuers would wait until a chance presented itself to take him without unnecessary damage and that wouldn't happen for at least another thirty minutes. That was when the racers were likely to getting bogged down by the police, making it easy to apprehend their target since the police would focus on the larger group of vehicles and drivers. At best one cop car would stop to nab the driver of the copy car and that's when the agent loyal to his former 'superiors' would move in. They'd neutralize the officers involved by whatever method seemed most efficient and then move on the driver's side door.

It would be at this point that they'd learn of the deception but by then he'd be long gone.

Despite his best wishes, the car couldn't be repainted and dried in less than an hour. In fact, according to Dom, it'd likely be around the early afternoon before it'd be dry enough to drive like normal. He'd need to slip out of the garage then come back for it the moment he got the call but fortunately Hector had a way to make that happen. Walking over to a carpet on the floor, he kicked it aside to reveal a hatch that he'd been told would lead to the means by which he'd get out of the area unseen. It wouldn't be pleasant and he'd definitely need a shower later but he didn't sweat the details. It wouldn't be any different than coming home from a night of slayage covered in demon goo.

BANG!

SSCCRREEECCHH!

CRASH!

"What the hell!?" Hector exclaimed as he went to the upper level walkway where the windows were.

They're acting now? This was unexpected.

"What do you see?" he asked, after letting Dom's friend get the lay of the land.

"Shit! Looks like your double got tagged," Hector replied, turning away from the window to look at him. "Got one wheel blown off and it slammed into a telephone pole."

Definitely unexpected.

So far his pursuers had made it clear that they wanted him back in as good a condition as they could manage, hence the non-lethal weapons and tactics. However shooting out a tire to bring the decoy car to a stop was risky since it could very easily lead to a fatal accident, even if a skilled driver was at the wheel. Clearly the rules had changed.

"Then we've all got to bail. Leave the car behind," he said deciding on the best course of action. "As soon as they realize it's not me in the car they'll know there's a switch. They'll try to figure out when it happened and that'll likely lead them to looking around here. Trust me when I say that you don't want to be here when they come knocking."

"I don't know what 'hood you came from, white boy, but we ain't afraid of a couple of suits with pieces," one of the painters said, sounding like he was confident that they could handle themselves. "You get your ass outta here like Dom planned. They come looking, we'll lay on the bullshit until they leave. They try to get hardcore? We can do that, too!"

"These guys are several levels above your local gangstas, Hector," he said, looking at the leader right in the eyes. "This is stone cold killer spec ops shit! You really want to roll with that?"

He could tell from looking at the guy that he was torn between saving face with his crew and keeping them alive so he could earn back their respect later. In the end he could tell that the man Dom called friend wasn't stupid enough to throw his life away for pride alone.

"Everyone drop everything! We're bailing," Hector ordered, causing those who'd begun working on the car to stop. "I ain't letting any of you get your asses capped biting off more than any of y'all can chew. We'll come back and finish the job once the heat's off."

The member of the painting crew that'd spoken up earlier looked like he might make more of a fuss but a glare from Hector killed that thought. Then as one they began to file down through the hatch while he stayed at the top just in case their escape got interrupted before it was finished. Pulling out his Desert Eagle, he watched as each member of Hector's crew went down the hatch until it was just him and Hector.

"Down you go, Xan. Ain't no way I'm gonna fail Dom by letting you get stuck here," Hector said, gesturing at the hatch.

He was about to take the offer when two gunshots that were way too close cut through the air and with them two holes appeared around the handle of a door leading outside. Without thinking he grabbed Hector and threw him down the hole to where his fellows would be waiting for him before closing the hatch and throwing the rug back over it. With luck the agents that were coming for him wouldn't care about pursuing anyone who'd helped him but that'd still leave him by himself. The layout of the garage didn't provide a lot of room for maneuvering but it did provide various forms of cover that hopefully would make shooting him with anything difficult.

When a final shot tore off the doorknob itself, he knew he was out of time.

As soon as the door opened wide enough for him to confirm that it wasn't Dom or any member of his crew he opened fire, aiming for disabling shots rather than lethal ones. He was tired of being on the low side when it came to information on who he was facing so once the threat was eliminated he'd take his time pulling out every useful fact that could be found in the pursuer's head. Once he had a clearer picture of the opposition, he'd be able to plan his moves more efficiently increasing the odds of successfully escaping their gaze.

One shot successfully grazed the left leg while another hit the arm holding what looked to be a Berretta handgun fitted with a suppressor, causing the weapon to hit the ground. To the man's credit he didn't waste any time trying to pick up the weapon with his good arm but a quick shot pretty much mangled the hand reaching for it. Burdened by wounds and the accompanying pain, the man fell to the floor, no doubt trying to fight his way through both to accomplish his mission.

He didn't pay the man any further mind since his threat level had been reduced and instead focused on what could be behind the man.

So he was taken off guard when something smashed through the window Hector had been looking out of, hitting the ground and bouncing once before coming to a stop. His eyes identified it immediately as a canister that could be fired from a weapon similar to a multi-chambered grenade launcher. Gas began to pour out of it and he recognized it as the threat. Whether the gas was supposed to knock him out or just force him out of the building he didn't know but that didn't stop him from acting. With a single glance at the room he found what he needed and, moving quickly, scooped up one of the masks that would've been used in the painting of his car along with a pair of goggles. They weren't military grade and wouldn't be perfect protection against the gas but it'd take longer for the canister's contents to affect him.

Moving to a location that'd give him a good vantage spot but not be readily visible, he waited and a minute later a woman with a proper gas mask entered the building, her Glock ready to fire.

Not that it helped her much.

Just as she spotted him he finished lining up his shot and, with a gentle squeeze of the trigger, his Desert Eagle spat another round that buried itself in her head. She dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut, staring vacantly ahead even as a pool of her blood grew beneath her now-hollowed head. Before he could take much satisfaction in the kill his vision began to blur a bit, letting him know that what protection the goggles and mask provided was wearing thin. Moving over to the dead woman he picked up her weapon before stuffing it beneath his belt, then did a quick search that scored him two more magazines of bullets. Going over to the man he'd disabled he found the guy to be unconscious, though whether that was due to blood loss or the effects of the gas he didn't know. Keeping his weapon hand up he wrapped his other arm around the injured man's neck before hoisting him up in a position that would make for a convenient meat shield.

He might want the guy alive for questioning but he wouldn't be able to interrogate anything if he got himself caught beforehand.

Exiting out into the open air, he immediately looked about for any sign of additional hostiles either at street level or on one of the nearby rooftops.

Too bad he wasn't fast enough to spot something two blocks away.

His meat shield shuddered with the impact and likely only through a grazing of the guy's bones did the bullet graze the upper arm of the hand that had the Desert Eagle. It was a flesh wound that he could still fight through but without a bandage would cause the usual blood loss problems to crop up eventually. Taking careful aim he fired two shots in the direction he figured the hostile was located, hoping to take the person by surprise with the lack of hindrance the flesh wound had caused. Unfortunately when retaliatory fire came back his way after he'd fired, he knew he'd missed or at least he didn't hit anything vital.

Steadily moving backwards he knew roughly where he was in reference to the garage so, if he could just keep the unknown hostile occupied a few more seconds, he could get around the corner, breaking the line of sight. From there he'd make a break for it doing his best to make his escape route as random as possible while also keeping anyone who followed from getting a clear look at him. After that he'd have to spend at least a few days constantly on the move and hope that Hector and his crew finished the paint job by then.

Assuming they did finish, he'd leave Los Angeles.

If one group could find him then the others wouldn't be too far behind, especially once the police finished their investigation into this firefight.

BANG!

 _Shit! They've figure out my plan_ , he thought as a bullet from the hostile struck the sidewalk in the direction he'd been going in. _I'm going to need some kind of distraction._

CH-CH-CH-CHKA!

Hearing the sound of an H&K MP5 and seeing every burst impact the area where he believed the hostile was located, he was surprised that his request for a distraction had been answered. Still, he didn't just stand there and gape. He took full advantage of the opportunity, dropping his shield, who was now quite dead, and sprinted around the corner he'd originally planned on backing around. He needed to put as much distance between the garage and himself as possible in the next few minutes since it'd only be a matter of time before the hostile tried circling around whoever was shooting at them.

 _Just buy me a couple of minutes, whoever you are!_ he thought, sprinting all out and choosing new directions on a whim.

 _ **Jason Bourne's POV**_

 _She's down_ , he thought as he looked at the still form of the Treadstone agent that'd attacked Harris outside of the garage. _Time to find Harris._

He hadn't been sure that he'd be able to do it with an MP5 at its maximum effective range but he had. Counting the one that'd disabled the decoy car that Harris had somehow come up with, he'd eliminated two agents, with Harris' actions taking care of a third. While this was good it was not necessarily great since he didn't know how many agents the CIA had sent after him. Indeed, he didn't know in total how many people had been turned into agents of Treadstone. Ten? Twenty? A hundred? He didn't know. As such there could be a great many more agents in Los Angeles so, until he found some sort of evidence that conclusively told him how many enemies there were, he'd assume there were more.

With the loss of three it'd be a big enough setback to force any who remained to withdraw and rethink their strategy.

Their training didn't include recklessly throwing their lives into the grinder.

Collapsing the stock and tucking the MP5 beneath his jacket, he began moving in the direction he'd seen Harris run.

Some might think that finding someone so long after losing sight of them was impossible but for him this would merely be very hard. To survive and do as well as he had, Harris would need to have been given similar instruction to himself. With that in mind he could see the surrounding area with similar eyes and hopefully anticipate which streets or alleys the young man had chosen to go down. Of course how accurate his guesses were would depend on what Harris' current objective was. Was he going to try to leave the city? Was he going to find someplace to hide? Was he going to arm up somewhere and go on the offensive?

Thinking on what he'd been told about Harris and the theories he'd come up with by himself, he believed that the most likely possibility was hiding.

While fleeing the city was not entirely out of the question, he didn't think that the teenager would leave behind what assets he had with his car or wherever the college kid had been sleeping. With the alphabet agencies involved his bank assets were likely frozen, so all Harris had was what he physically had on him. Walking around with nothing but the clothes on your back limited your operational options and gave your enemy a large tactical advantage. Only when those tangible assets were destroyed or eternally out of reach was abandoning them warranted.

Taking the fight to the Treadstone agents was plausible since it wouldn't be hard to acquire weapons or steal police grade bullet resistant vests, since most patrol vehicles stored one in the trunk. Two factors, however, made him believe that Harris wouldn't choose to take this course of action. First, thefts done in a hurry tended to be sloppy and attract attention, since there was no time to plan them with subtlety in mind. Plus the original owners of the items might come looking to reclaim them, adding more foes for Harris to fight and that would not improve the situation. Also the number of foes Harris would need to fight would only go up as time went on, so anything more than a short, decisive fight would cause the young man's odds of success to drop with every hour that passed. Before long the young man would be backed into a corner with far too many enemies to fight and far too little in the resources with which to fight them.

That only left hiding until the presence of the enemy decreased to the point where it was safe to come out into the open.

With that in mind he viewed everything around him from the point of view of someone looking to hide and on the spot went with whatever direction seemed most likely. As minutes passed he thought that perhaps he'd chosen wrong until quick movement from his right caused his training to spring into action. The first half dozen moves were done before his eyes full registered who he was fighting, however once his eyes along with his brain had the time to sync up properly he found out.

Alexander Harris.

Apparently in his haste to catch up with the young man he'd tipped the teenager off and made himself look to be another enemy.

"Stop! I'm…ungh…I'm not…your enemy!" he grunted out in between blows.

Looking at the expression on Harris' face, though, he could tell that the young man didn't believe a word of it but that wasn't surprising considering what'd happened a short time ago. Believing that he needed to first end the fight before the person he'd come to help would give his words a chance, he brought to the forefront all the techniques he consciously knew. Focusing on the ones that used your opponents own moves against them as well as those that allowed the user to restrain their opponents he worked to end the match. It wasn't easy since Harris wasn't being so kind as to pull his blows, but rather was coming at him strong with the intent of decisively winning the fight. With every exchange, though, it became clear he had the one advantage that'd see him through the fight that Harris didn't have.

Experience.

Harris might very well have superior physical abilities to him and whoever was responsible for his training had done a good job, but it was increasingly clear that the teenager lacked real world experience. Anyone trained in combat could tell you that fights in a training setting were nothing like those against real opponents intent on doing you harm. As you survived more fights, won or lost, you began to learn the things that couldn't be learned in the classroom, both subtle in nature as well as things that should've been abundantly obvious. As those things built up, you were able to refine how you fought, becoming more capable as well as more efficient. With the gap in experience between the two of them he began to gain ground little by little until Harris chose to pull a Bowie knife in order to tip things in his favor.

As a result of this the teenager overplayed his first thrust and so he pounced on the opening that'd been presented to him. Grabbing hold of the weapon hand by the wrist, he pulled Harris into a punch aimed at the jaw but, intriguingly enough, this didn't render the young man unconscious, rather it dazed him. Quickly shifting himself so that he maintained a grip on the wrist of the weapon hand, he hooked his other arm beneath it before executing a throw. With the impact of hitting the ground knocking the air out of Harris' lungs, the teenager was momentarily incapable of moving, so he quickly twisted the knife arm while pressing down hard on the nerve bundle located in the wrist. Between the pain from the joint lock and the pressure on the nerve bundle he managed to cause the knife to be dropped to the ground. However he could not let down his guard just yet because he could think of at least three ways to break free of the hold he was using at the moment.

"Calm down! I'm not here to hurt you!" he said even as he countered the counters Harris was trying to use in order to break free. "I was sent here to help you!"

"By who? The tooth fairy?" Harris asked sarcastically, not pausing in his efforts.

"No. Some guy who called himself Janus," he replied, remembering the man that'd set him on his current path.

Oddly enough this got the teenager below him to stop struggling for a moment but, from the tenseness of the muscles, that could end depending on what he said next.

"What did he tell you?" Harris asked in a tone that betrayed nothing.

"He told me that another government project had been carried out similar to the one that I was put through called Project Golem. That you were sent to a dangerous place and given instructors to bring out your full potential," he replied, keeping to the most important facts. "He told me how you'd managed to slip free of their control and that they were on your trail to put it back in place. He asked me to come help make sure that didn't happen."

An inscrutable look came over Harris' face and for a full minute the young man said nothing. It was only when the tenseness left Harris' body that he thought that he'd finally gotten through to the young man.

"So the two faced bastard decided to do me a favor," Harris said, sounding as though he didn't particularly like the man. "Probably just doesn't want to lose his favorite source of entertainment. You can let me up now."

Deciding to trust Harris he let go of the wrist and quickly took a couple of steps back, just in case this was a ruse to restart their exchange of blows. With a couple of shakes to get feeling back in the arm that'd been restrained Harris got to his feet and showed no signs of wanting to resume fighting, but still he kept his guard up.

"Looks like we've got some stuff to talk about," Harris said, picking his Bowie knife off the ground before sheathing it behind his back, "but let's find someplace a little more private. Any ideas?"

"A few," he replied before turning in the direction of his car. "Follow me."

With that they were on the move but this time it was as allies rather than strangers.

 _ **Sole Surviving Treadstone Agent's POV**_

Jason Bourne.

This was an unforeseen variable and, given what had happened, continuing the operation was not advisable.

It'd been shortly after one of the others had disabled the target's car with a precise sniper shot that he'd sensed someone approaching from behind him. Before he'd been able to fully turn around, though, something had been pressed against his back and then pain consumed his existence until unconsciousness replaced it. He'd only regained consciousness a few minutes ago but as soon as he had he'd tried to get a status report from the others, receiving only silence in return. He'd made two more attempts before coming to the conclusion that they'd somehow been eliminated and so he'd quickly broken down his tranquilizer rifle, stuffed it into its bag before leaving to find the target.

It had been a stroke of luck that, after confirming that the target had not been in the car that'd been disabled, that he'd heard a noise behind him causing him to turn. It had been brief but he'd seen the target run around the corner behind him and so he'd taken off in pursuit. He'd chosen to be cautious, though, since the team of four was down to just him and therefore the burden of victory now solely rested on his shoulders. It'd taken a while but eventually he felt safe that he'd managed to catch up with the target but when he'd heard sounds of fighting he'd slowed to a crawl.

Pressing himself up against a wall he'd inched ever closer to the edge until he could successfully peek around it.

What he'd found had him freeze.

The target was fighting someone hand-to-hand but only once a pause in the combat had allowed him to see the unknown's face did he recognize the man. It was a man that every Treadstone agent knew because he was the only one of them to go rogue and standing orders were to report in the moment identification was conclusive. It was also strongly implied in those standing orders that, depending on the situation, the agent would be reassigned to terminate Jason Bourne.

Carefully observing the situation, he watched as a loose non-aggression agreement was reached between the target and Jason Bourne, causing him to withdraw.

The target was already classified as extremely dangerous and Bourne's actions since his desertion indicated no drop in skill or efficacy. Individually there was a chance that he could successfully kill one of them, but if he attempted to defeat them both at the same time he would fail. With this outcome conclusively reached he turned away to put some distance between himself and the duo so that he could code in with his superiors and inform them of this development—

-Only to find out that sometime between his initial inching towards the edge of the wall and his turning away from the two hostiles someone had snuck up behind him. However before he could begin evaluating this unexpected person a stabbing pain erupted from his abdomen, causing him to freeze in shock. Gasping he looked down towards the source only to find a long metal blade buried in his stomach, his own blood quickly staining his clothes before dripping to the ground below.

Without even thinking he knew it was a fatal wound and, looking at the face of his killer, he knew that she was a professional. Not a drop of emotion was expressed on her face. All he could see was the stone cold face and those dead green eyes. As his strength began to fade away his murderer efficiently yanked the metal blade from his body, causing him to fall to the ground given that he'd long since ceased to have the strength to stand under his own power. He barely felt it when he hit the ground but, even with coherent thought leaving him, he could still perceive his vision dimming and losing color.

Only when the last of the light left him did the person he'd been before Treadstone regain his freedom fleeting though it was.

Nevertheless his last thought was of wishing Jason Bourne and Alexander Grimm all the luck in the world.

 _ **The Alley, Same Time**_

Looking around the alleyway she determined that her approach to a position behind the Treadstone agent and his subsequent sanctioning had not been noticed by anyone.

Withdrawing her blade she began a process of stripping the man of any useful resources and his identification papers. The longer it took the local authorities to positively identify the man, the longer it would be before the Treadstone commander back in Langley would be unaware of his team's complete failure. To further that objective she lifted the corpse off the ground and carried it over to a nearby dumpster, tossing it inside. With some careful manipulation of the trash bags to ensure the body would not be discovered by the depositing of subsequent bags of trash, she closed the lid of the dumpster.

In her estimation, unless an unlikely sequence of events took place, the dumpster would successfully have its contents dumped into the next garbage truck before finding its way to the landfill. Buried amidst the tons of trash, the probability of it being discovered was minimal but that simply meant that an elapsed amount of time would be what tipped off the person waiting for a call at the CIA. She did not know when the agent was expected to report back in, since it could be anywhere from an hour to twenty-four hours. Nevertheless, even if they suspected something was amiss, they would almost certainly investigate first before deciding on their next course of action and that would take time.

Time both Alexander Grimm and Jason Bourne could use to disappear into the crowd before leaving Los Angeles entirely.

Taking out a bottle she'd brought with her, she liberally poured its contents over the blood of the agent that was on the ground. She would not be able to completely eradicate the blood without making her intent clear to any who examined the alley. Therefore she'd chosen to simply contaminate the blood to the point where even the cutting edge forensic technology of the day would not be able to identify who it belonged to. Given the murder statistics of Los Angeles, it would likely lead to a cursory investigation before being put on the shelf until some new piece of evidence came along.

As for the other Treadstone agents killed by Alexander Grimm and Jason Bourne, she believed that there was an acceptable chance that she could recover at least one of the bodies before the police discovered them. Once that was done she would take the necessary steps to ensure it vanished while also tampering with any organic material that could lead to conclusive identification.

While she would prefer to do more and take direct action against those threatening the one she had been ordered to protect, her current mission parameters did not permit this. Until certain criteria were met, her primary objective remained covertly supporting Alexander Grimm and protecting him from the forces determined to force his compliance by any means necessary. While the criteria held a low probability of occurring any time soon, there was a respectable chance of it occurring eventually if she was patient.

Patience thankfully was one of the things she had more of than anyone else on the planet.

 _ **Just Outside the Los Angeles City Limits**_

 _ **Four Days Later**_

 _ **Xander's POV**_

"It might not've gone according to plan but we gave'em the slip anyways," he said as Dom walked away from his repainted 1968 Mustang GT 390. "Thanks, Dom."

"You're welcome, Xan. Though I gotta warn you that Hector's pretty pissed at you right now," Dom said with a smile that implied that he wasn't worried. "Both for the door and for throwing him into the hatch. He has a nasty shiner because of that."

"As soon as I get enough money, I'll mail it to him for the door along with something to make up for the black eye," he said, feeling a little bad about the trouble he'd brought Hector.

"Just send him a keg of expensive beer and everything'll be cool," Dom said, smile still on his face.

"Got it," he said, nodding at the idea. "See you around."

"Don't be a stranger," Dom said before tossing the keys to the GT 390 to him. "Mia might need some new sandwich ideas."

They both chuckled at that since they knew that the recipes he'd provided Mia had caused an upswing in customers. Nothing dramatic or anything but it was unmistakable that the new sandwiches had improved business. He even remembered how Letty had joked that now thanks to the new sandwiches they could finally toss the shitty tuna fish sandwiches into the garbage where they belonged. There was still a selection of prepackaged sandwiches available but it was only natural that any customer would prefer something freshly made.

He didn't know where his path was going to take him, not yet, but he'd do what he could to keep an eye out for any other meals that'd help Mia out.

Watching Dom head towards where Letty was waiting next to her car, he had to say that his trip to Los Angeles hadn't turned out to be anything like what he'd been expecting it to be. He hadn't expected to make friends or get a new car out of the deal. He certainly hadn't expected to run into another 'super soldier' like Jason. Nevertheless, the benefits from these surprises far outweighed the trouble he'd run into.

Especially since, through Jason, he now had a better idea of who his enemy was.

According to Jason, ever since World War Two, the governments of the world have been experimenting to see if they could produce a super soldier. One of the first experiments was called the Agent Program but that has been put on hold due to the absence of several of its key scientists. The program Jason was once a part of, 'Treadstone', was meant to use drugs as well as mental conditioning to create an operative who'd always obey orders without question.

The project that gave rise to him was codenamed 'Golem'.

It took genetic material of two promising individuals and used it to create a child that genetically was comprised of the best of both. After that they gathered the best in the fields that matched what they'd want their operative to excel in, drew blood from each of them before instituting a process to graft the desired traits onto the child.

That wasn't all, though.

They also wanted an operative that could blend in with the civilian population but be ready to act as their agent in a second. To make this happen the egghead in charge decided that an artificial case split of personality was the way to go. One personality would be Alexander Harris, teenager and middle class guy, while the other would be a machine named Agent Grimm, ready to take orders and fulfill them. From there he'd been relocated to Sunnydale with his 'parents', more likely his handlers, to be trained up until he was ready for his big debut.

But now he'd slipped their leash and, given the amount of time, money and resources that'd likely been involved, they wouldn't just let him go. They'd continue to pursue him until it was made clear that they did not possess the ability to beat him or that the cost of bringing him in would be downright irrational to accept.

That'd take time and require that he beat whatever they sent at him each and every time in ways that didn't give them even the slightest bit of hope.

For now he had to take advantage of the fact that they'd lost track of him to relocate someplace where he could plan out his next step.

Getting into his Mustang, he brought the engine to life before pulling out onto the highway and putting some distance between himself and L.A.

He still thought that losing himself in a large city was the best course of action since it'd making things harder for his 'creators' to find him. However in the interests of not putting innocent people in harm's way he'd set himself up in some abandoned building far enough from the flow of civilian traffic that a fight wouldn't risk killing non-combatants. While he knew that in a busy city abandoned buildings were often torn down soon after their owners had given up on them, he was confident that some would hang around a while longer. After all, it cost money to demolish a building and time to get the necessary permits to bring it down in the first place.

He'd just have to be careful and stay out of sight as much as possible.

 _Here's hoping I do a better job of it wherever I wind up than I did in Los Angeles_ , he thought, remembering how long it took for trouble to find him there.

 _ **LAX Airport, The Next Day**_

 _ **Angela Holtzmann's POV**_

"Agent Hunt. Agent Hunt!" she said, walking quickly to keep up the C.O. of this I.M.F. operation. "ETHAN! Slow down!"

"We can't slow down! We're too far behind as it is!" Ethan said aggressively, moving towards the baggage claim area. "I can't believe it took the L.A.P.D. this long to put the information on that body into the system!"

True.

Given the murder rate for Los Angeles in the last fifteen years, it'd come as no surprise when a policy was put into effect to conduct a search of the local landfills for corpses or human body parts. It was, after all, a rather obvious means by which a criminal could both get their victim out of sight and dispose of the body in one fell swoop. Add to that the sheer number of dumpsters in the city and the likelihood of any garbage man looking into one before using his truck to dump it into the back and the odds of discovery without the policy were low. For a year after the policy went into effect there'd been a decided spike in corpses found that gradually died off since criminals got scared off due to the increased chance of discovery.

Another part of the policy was that the moment the corpse was found it was to be taken to the local coroner for autopsy and, should it be labeled as having died by unnatural means, it would be entered into the criminal database. Given the fact that the I.M.F. had access to every criminal database in America, they should've received a notification of the bodies bearing a strong similarity to the ones from the Las Vegas construction site within forty-eight hours of their discovery. Instead it'd taken over a week and, with the trail so cold, it meant that they'd come no closer to catching up with their suspect and might very well have fallen a step or more further behind.

So it was understandable that Ethan wanted to make up for lost time and negate the gap between them and their suspect.

"It was probably some sort of jurisdictional pride crap," Luthor said from a short distance behind her. "You know: city cops not wanting to give up a case to the feds. Probably only bothered to call us in when they realized how out of their league this was."

"I don't care why they didn't follow the rules! Right now all that matters is getting the evidence, getting the facts and using them to tell us where to go next," Ethan declared as they arrived at the baggage claim area. "Angie, when we get to the L.A.C.S.I. labs I want you to go over every scrap of evidence they have connected to the body. Look for anything that could help us."

"You got it," she said, mentally going over the most efficient methods of digesting that information in the shortest amount of time.

"Luthor, the Los Angeles CCTV system should still have the past week's recordings in the system. Using a facial recognition program run a search for Harris. I don't care if it's only a sixty percent match," Ethan said as they grabbed their bags off of the carousel. "We'll chase down each of them until we find something."

"Gotcha," Luthor said, sounding displeased by the amount of work ahead of him.

"Zhen, you'll talk with the local police captains. Ask if anything strange or out of the ordinary has happened since Harris' departure from Las Vegas," Ethan ordered the last member of their team.

"'Out of the ordinary' is a pretty broad definition," Zhen said, pointing out the difficulty in making such an inquiry.

"Cops that've worked in Los Angeles for that long have a pretty good grasp of how things work and what to expect over time," Ethan pointed out as he picked up his bag. "Any unusual activity will stick out in their minds."

It was a bit of an optimistic outlook but not an entirely unrealistic viewpoint.

Just like anyone else, if you lived in one place long enough you grew accustomed to what went on there, what was considered 'normal' for that place, and therefore were able to pick out anomalies quickly. Apply that to police officers and you got people who became familiar with the various criminal factions in your jurisdiction as well as the individual scumbag of note. Not enough to get more than a gut feeling or produce rough theories about what their plans were but enough to know when something was off regarding their behavior.

If asked if anything out of the ordinary had happened in the last few weeks, they'd be sure to gain at least a few leads worth following.

"What'll you be doing?" she asked, figuring that Ethan wouldn't just be sitting around idle while the rest of them went about gathering then analyzing data.

"I'll be checking out the area the dumpster the body was tossed in likely came from," Ethan replied as he turned towards the closest airport exit. "With a little luck Harris got sloppy and left us a clue."

"And if he didn't?" she asked before she could stop yourself.

"Then we keep looking!" Ethan snapped as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Until we find him or until Brassel pulls us off this assignment."

She had a feeling that even if Brassel ordered them off the assignment Hunt would still pursue Harris, if for no other reason than to find out why DNA evidence had been left behind implying that Harris was his son. Family was important to Ethan, as evidenced by his wife and his dedication to her. So if this was one sick joke then Hunt had a very personal reason to find the suspect and make clear his displeasure. If it was the real deal somehow then Ethan would want to get his surprise son out of whatever fix the teenager was in and learn how the whole mess came about.

Considering the suspect's age, he would have to have been conceived about twenty years ago, give or take a year. That would've put Ethan pretty early in his I.M.F. career, so in her opinion it wasn't impossible that the man had just gotten sloshed one night, had a roll in the hay with some woman, knocked her up and then forgot about the whole thing. After all, there was no law of nature that said the woman needed to contact Ethan when she found out she was pregnant. Indeed there was every possibility that she'd had a very good reason not to let the news go any further than herself.

It almost made her think that maybe they should find Harris' home address and talk to his folks to find out what sort of trouble the kid had gotten into.

The only problem with that was that Ethan was the Agent in Charge and he hadn't given the order yet to do so. The experienced I.M.F. agent seemed determined to track down Harris and didn't want any distractions like going through a Q&A with the teenager's folks. She could see his point since if they knew anything they would've reported it to the police since it was only natural to do so if your son had guns and was kicking multiple butts at the same time. Since they hadn't, they were either completely unobservant concerning their 'son' or knew what Alexander was up to and didn't care enough to inform the police.

Either way, inquiring probably wouldn't be all that fruitful.

When they got to the car rental shop they rented three cars to keep themselves as mobile as possible. She'd take one to head to the Los Angeles C.S.I. labs to go over what the local boys in blue had picked up so far before grabbing a crime scene examination kit and heading out herself. Zhen would get a ride with her so she could take the car once they got to the labs and swing back later to take her wherever she needed to go. Luther would take the last one and head to the hotel so he could get them all checked in, get his gear set up and then begin going through camera footage. It was still relatively early in the morning, so odds were they'd be able to get quite a bit of work done before regrouping at their hotel rooms for the daily debrief.

"You all know your jobs people. Let's make up for lost time and close the gap!" Ethan said from the driver side of his rental car.

With that the leader of the I.M.F. got into his vehicle and drove off leaving the rest of them watching his departure.

"This assignment's messing with his head," Luther said with concern.

"No big surprise there," she said, looking at the man. "He found out he might just have a kid. That'd be enough to mess with anyone's head."

"Then why didn't Brassel pull him off the case after the results of the DNA got filed in the report?" Luther asked, sounding a little confused. "It's standard with just about every government organization that if evidence was discovered that implied an agent is emotionally compromised then they're removed from the case. I'd say finding out the suspect could be your kid is some pretty solid evidence."

Time to go.

"Well, whatever's going on, I'm sure Brassel has his reasons," she said as she got into the car next to her. "Let's get going, Zhen."

It wasn't until they were five minutes underway that the silence broke.

"You didn't file the DNA test results, did you?" Zhen asked from behind the wheel.

…Crap. Busted.

"No. I just didn't think Hunt should be pulled off the case because of some evidence that coulda been planted," she replied, looking out the window. "We find this guy, we find out for sure if he's really Ethan's son. If he is then we can tell Brassel. If not, then no harm done."

"Just try not to go too far out on a limb, Angie," Zhen said as they came to a stop light. "Sometimes if you wait too long to stop a roller coaster, you lose the option to do it at all and have to ride it through to the end."

"Don't worry. I know when to say when," she said, recalling her own teenage years when she and a group of friends went bar hopping.

After three massive hangovers and one morning waking up naked next to some guy she could only vaguely recall meeting the night before, she learned the value of sticking to a cutoff point.

In the end she wound up applying the same concept to everything she did.

 _I just hope I don't get into too much shit over this when it's all over with,_ she thought as the light turned green. _Brassel might not be a complete dictator when it comes to the rules but that doesn't mean you can go all Wild West on assignment._

 _ **Suspected Crime Scene Number Three**_

 _ **Mid-Day**_

 _ **Ethan Hunt's POV**_

 _Don't think I'll find much here_ , he thought with frustration as he looked at the latest possible origin point for the corpse. _Trail's barely above room temperature._

Though if he was being completely honest with himself, he hadn't come out there on his own just to look for evidence to help the team track down Harris. He also needed some alone time so that he could think about the whole mess and sort out where he stood on the whole thing.

Up until now they'd been completely focused on following leads and trying to find Harris' trail so there hadn't been a lot of time for him to think things through on a more personal level. However, if his dreams were anything to go by, it was something that he needed to deal with sooner rather than later or he'd never be able to focus when it mattered.

So what did he think about Alexander Harris if that was who the suspect really was?

As far as the things that had nothing to do with the biological were concerned, it was his opinion that the kid had skill on a level that usually took people years to acquire. Unless Harris was a lot older than he looked it implied training going back to the boy's preteen years. While it was not his area of expertise, he had some experience with parts of the world where militias and guerilla groups had no age restriction when it came to their members. For the most part, those sorts of groups angered him because they were stealing away the innocence of children for a few extra bodies on the battlefield and there'd be repercussions off the battlefield that no one would like. Many child soldiers couldn't function off the battlefield and so, even if their original group was destroyed, they wound up gravitating towards the next closest replacement out of a desire for familiar sights and sounds.

Was Harris a child soldier? Possibly.

One of the things he'd done after being assigned this case was to go over the video footage from beginning to an end to look for any identifying clues about the source of Harris' training. He'd managed to pick out a few styles and techniques that gave him a rough idea of the shape of the training regime but it was definitely a mixed bag of lessons. This implied several teachers but that was a little hard to swallow since trying to learn multiple disciplines at the same time made for a fractured lesson plan. Most instructors didn't bother with such difficult methods and generally preferred a map of lessons that could be taught to large groups. If Harris got taught an assortment of skills and styles, it was more likely that he was personally taught on a one-on-one basis with the intent of producing something special rather than just another member of the rank and file.

A customized training regime conducted by specialists was his best guess.

If that was indeed the case then whoever was behind it all had something big planned and that'd explain the men that'd been sent after Harris. No one wanted to see years of hard work and support go down the drain.

The next question was whether or not Harris had broken from his creators because he still had some humanity left in him or because the teenager was so lacking in humanity he couldn't be controlled.

If it was the former then they needed to catch up with the young man sooner rather than later and place him in protective custody while also getting as many facts about the group that made him what he was so they could turn the tide. Any organization willing to commit resources to producing a special operative was dangerous and even more so if the organization wasn't tied to any government. At least with government involvement there were usually checks and balances of all sorts to keep things from getting too far out of hand. They were also easier to pin down since the one thing that was universal to every government in the world was paperwork. How far such trails branched out varied but, with every major country having undercover spies in every other major country, keeping something secret was difficult especially if it was large scale in nature.

Such projects conducted by non-government organizations, though, were harder to pick up on because, unless they drew attention to themselves it had the potential to go completely unnoticed. Such groups weren't required by law to be completely transparent with their activities unless they needed to request something involving forms as well as meetings. Whether it was a profit, power or fame, there was no end of motivations for creating an operative that was a cut above the rest.

Hopefully when he questioned Harris they'd learn enough to keep the list of possibilities small.

 _Professionally this is easy to handle_ , he thought as he continued to gaze about the alleyway. _It's the personal side of things that's a complete mess._

Biologically Harris could be his son but, even after thinking about it until he fell asleep that first night, he couldn't think of who he might've impregnated eighteen or so years ago. He hadn't been a player like some of the other agents in the I.M.F. and, while some of the relationships he'd had endured long enough for a roll in the sack, he'd been careful enough to pull out. Had he perhaps been drunk one time and forgotten to do so? There'd certainly been a handful of times that he'd completed a mission that'd been emotionally trying enough that temporary amnesia via intoxication had sounded pretty good.

The possibility was there even if he didn't like the circumstances that likely surrounded the conception.

What sort of life had Alexander Harris lived up until now?

Had there been any semblance of a normal life or had his son been treated more like a weapon in the making?

The fact that there were local, state and federal records of an Alexander Harris implied that the young man hadn't been kept isolated during his instruction, so that was one good thing. Even if he'd been ordered not to form connections, to treat every experience as training, it would've been impossible to keep certain things from happening. Humans were social, emotional and often irrational beings right down to their very souls. Adhering to a mindset meant to turn a human into something other than human went against the natural order of things and almost never worked out perfectly.

Could their mental conditioning failing be what led to the fight in Las Vegas?

Possibly.

However until he could look at the young man in person, the only thing he had to go on as far as the kid's personality and mindset were his actions.

 _So far all the fight locations have been relatively isolated_ , he thought as he approached the end of his area examination. _Alleys and construction sites that should've been empty of people. Did he choose based on a desire to keep non-combatants from getting involved or simply part of an overall strategy?_

He tried to form a map in his mind connecting Harris' actions and create an overall picture of how the young man's mind worked but there was too little information to work with. Just video feeds and the scattered bits of physical evidence that could've come from anywhere.

They needed more!

It was just as he was about to head back to the rental car and go to the next possible point of origin that he spotted a reflection of light where there shouldn't have been any. Carefully approaching, he crouched low to get a better look at the object only to find out that it was a dart commonly used in tranquilizer rifles. Considering the lack of things to use such an item on, he immediately knew that this had to be the location from which the corpse had been deposited into a dumpster before being transported to the landfill.

 _It's not much but it's a start_ , he thought as he took out the tools needed for collecting evidence.


End file.
